Miss Thursday
by CuriousNymph
Summary: Endeavour Morse - or rather preferably, just Morse - has always been the absolute gentleman. Kind, honest, polite and genuine, Joan Thursday can't help but be enamoured by him. But, apparently, his head is unlikely to turn in her direction. Well. That's what she thinks, anyway.
1. Chapter 1 - Entrance

This was an entire accident, I swear.

I'd been watching Endeavour repeats on TV and I had a sudden inkling that a little Morse fic was well overdue.

(For those panicking that Strange Happenings is being sidelined, it's not. Life is busy, but chapter three soliders on.)

But yes. Endeavour's endearingly confused face was too hard to resist and the witty banter that Joan and him had in the earlier seasons is a real firestarter for a fic like this. And, yes, I'm ecstatic about the new series in February - I mean, I'm biting my nails, but in an excited way.

As any of you who read my work know, a Spotify playlist was inevitable:

user/ingenioussprite/playlist/37hbsO01iedH52FCD22ezS

There's a mix of modern and oldie stuff, just based upon what felt right when I considered the story. Hopefully anybody listening will like the choices. Any comments or suggestions anybody has for the playlist - feel free to share! That's what music was made for.

Anyways, hope you enjoy this little side piece I did while I'm wading through unending homework and fanfiction chapters and essays that should have been written over a week ago.

Reviews and kudos are much appreciated!

* * *

When Joan Thursday first met a policeman outside her house, she was seven years old.

She'd known her Dad was a policeman – and she'd been told that he was thumping good one, too. She'd had an unwavering pride in him, like a light that refused to dim, no matter the shade that tried to cover it. She'd hug him round his middle and barrage him with questions about work before he hung his coat up.

 _Always leave work at the door_ , he said.

She'd complied, but it had been reluctantly.

For all her naivety, Joan had been more than aware that policemen generally all followed the same trail – they all sauntered after each other, looking the same, smelling the same, talking the same. The slicked back hair, the cigarette smoke and cologne, the dark, trim suits, all to appear charming and law-abiding in a spontaneous and precarious way that only succeeded half the time. By the time she was 13, she'd already found herself a little infatuated with the idea of them – at that age, anybody could be infatuated with a grown up charm. They looked dark and mysterious, even when she would look back on that memory and rue the day she ever cast her eyes that way, knowing that she should have known better from the start.

Policemen were an allure, because she had no idea who they were. And Joan, in a very young state even then, was allowed to fantasize about the job without any repercussions, because she didn't for a moment think she'd ever feel anything genuine towards them anyway.

When she turned 17, the allure was different, but she still felt that it was a naïve pursuit.

She'd met boys, of course. She'd been out with them, and danced with them, and sometimes they were too eager, and sometimes they weren't eager enough. But having the new apprentice of her Dad turning up on the doorstep was still the most thrilling.

She had to begrudgingly admit that she was a little bit of an adrenaline junkie - to some degree, at least.

They always came with that plume of bitter smelling smoke hanging around them, a sly smirk on their face like they'd gotten themselves right where they needed to be. When she first met Sergeant Jakes, he'd had that cocky type of charm that meant he _believed_ in his charisma, and knew that you did as well. He was handsome, to be sure – but a little ragged around the edges, every time a frown crossed his face. She'd been taken with him, to be sure.

But she hadn't been prepared for the next one.

At the age of 21, Joan Thursday had heard the doorbell ring out that morning, once again tightening her hairband around her wayward waves of hair, and trying to understand how she'd managed to reach this age before she'd ever had a thought about it. Likewise, she'd thought about it as much as her parents had, who reminded her daily that her age was baffling them – possibly even less so than her brother's age of 24. Time seemed to slip away before she'd realized it, and what had once been her daydreams as a girl were now her realities as a young adult.

The door had clicked open and she'd been prepared to be met with the wry face of Peter Jakes, only to be taken aback by the lithe shoulders and mop of sandy blond hair that greeted her on the porch, so unlike the usual look of the Sergeant before him.

He'd turned round at the door, smiling openly in an awkward sort of way, like he was still trying to tell himself that everything around him was actually real, and not a dream.

She'd taken a good look at him then, even when she'd been teasing him effortlessly, making him smile in an ineffectual way – the way many did when they didn't know what else to do. She'd thought him handsome, but nothing like Jakes. The sergeant had been unruly and rogue and little immoral, if not also deliberately charismatic and uncommonly funny, in a wry, sardonic sort of way. The man in front of her had, from the offset, looked like he belonged in the role of Galahad: innocent and youthful and not at all trying to be anything he wasn't.

There was no cigarette smoke. There were no cheap lines and coy smirks.

Even as she'd let him come in, his cologne had swept past her in a very different way to that of the ones before. A gentler scent – trying to brush her senses like a lover rather than punch them like an enemy. A light, musky scent that seemed to suit his gentle demeanour.

He'd looked uncomfortable. Or rather, more to the point, _he was_. Like he couldn't believe he'd had the audacity to stand outside the door, never mind sit at the kitchen table as he waited for his boss.

Her brother had made light of the situation of course – as always.

"I'm impressed," he'd said, and of course, Joan had prepared to denounce him publicly, but secretly agree with him. Lump of a brother or not, he still mattered to her more than most people did, normally because he didn't indulge in saying what he didn't mean. There were few like that out there, and having it being a common family trait meant that she'd picked it up like a flu.

"Do you want a cuppa?"

He had shaken his head, looking almost alarmed by the suggestion.

"No, I'm fine, thanks, Miss Thursday,"

"Miss Thursday?" Her mum had seemed absolutely aghast at the notion, as she came in with more toast on a rack, apron round her waist but a confident air in her walk. Although certainly kind, Winifred Thursday – as her Dad often lovingly called her when he thought her and Sam were out of earshot – was no fool, and could see exactly what had Joan hanging off the edge of the counter, feigning indifference to the striking but unassuming young man, backed up against the wall as if afraid they'd cave in if he didn't. Some bemused little smirk had been on her face as she had looked at him, she too drinking in his features the way Joan had, although in a distinctly less fascinated way – it had been more akin to approval.

"She gets enough of that down the bank. Start calling her it at home and she'll get airs,"

Joan, in contrast, had snapped her head round at his comment, staring wide eyed for half a second at the address. And there was that same shy smile, so afraid of offense and misconduct, but looking so old despite his young years. He looked a little washed out by the pale coat he wore, but his dark suit serving as a good pick-me-up to his pale complexion, smatterings of golden freckles across his nose and thin, bowed lips, sandy hair brushed to the side in soft waves attempting to be curls. But his eyes were something else – worn and tired looking, despite how young they still looked in a still relatively young face

Perhaps, Joan had thought, old souls made young eyes look wise.

"That's Joan, love," her mum had said in passing, as Joan smiled in bemused disbelief at the scene before her. He'd merely smiled at the notion – a shy sort of thing that made him look almost flushed by having ever said anything.

"He's one of Dad's, Mum," she had said witheringly, trying to avoid his rather solid gaze, as though intrigued by such a familial scene around him. Maybe he hadn't had a family like this, she wondered. Was it possible that somebody as young as him could manage to look so much older than his age?

"Well, I didn't think he was from the pools," her mum replied, and Joan had let loose a snigger that had perhaps sounded a little undignified, but she couldn't help it. This was much too strange for her to refuse to get giddy at it.

"So… what do they call you, then?" She'd been unable to help herself, studying his features with rapt attention, not so much attracted, but rather more intrigued. _New, new, new,_ she thought. That's what the curiosity of it was. New always made her jump, and analyse to a fine detail. She hadn't a clue where she'd picked up _that_ particular personality quirk – probably her dad, if she didn't hadn't already figured that out beforehand.

He'd paused to look at her, like he was looking for some trace of teasing beyond what she'd already stuck on him.

"Morse," he'd said with a polite smile, still as guarded as ever. All politeness, nothing much else. Skittish, even – but then he was a stranger to everybody here. Most of all her.

"Mmm, Morse. Morse what?" she said approvingly, tilting her head, just as Sam decided now was the time to make some stupid joke, stuffing toast into his mouth.

"Morse code. Dit dit da," he said, mocking an unbothered look as Morse continued to glance around in polite but confused silence.

It had only taken a moment for him to be on his feet again, just after he'd sat down – apparently, he wasn't one for hanging around places. Joan continued to look at him, just as she was shooed into order, her bus certainly not intending on waiting for her if she was late.

As he bid her mum goodbye, trailing after her father with his shoulders tucked in, Joan had stared after him with a quirked eyebrow, leaning round the banister on the stairs, to look back into the kitchen.

"He's a bit weird, isn't he?" she had said, tilting her head a little as the door clicked behind the swish of his beige coat.

"Weird, dear?" Win had seemed confused. "He's just a young man, Joan. Polite, quiet. Shy. Better than a lot of them, I'd say. They aren't all like that, are they?" The accompanying look of withering amusement had made Joan roll her eyes.

Her mother walked back into the kitchen, hiding her smile as Joan had continued to stare after the closed door, as if imagining for one moment that he might walk back in again, apologizing profusely for having forgotten the car keys.

Anything to just get another chance to look at that peculiarly angelic face, however wounded he might be behind the blue eyes and sandy hair.

"No, they're not," Joan muttered to herself, just as she raised her eyebrows in admission, and swung round the banister and made her way upstairs again.

She hadn't met a single young man like him before in her life.

It had only been a few days until she'd seen him again, coming home early from the bank after having had an earlier shift. These days, she'd found life to be rather exciting, but she thought that was perhaps she had little to worry about. She was having fun – but she often wondered how it might be for other people.

She had tried not to dwell on the fact that she was a good deal better off than others.

She'd traipsed into the sitting room, usually reserved for special occasions, trying to remember where she'd left her magazine – only to find something else sprawled across the sofa, that strangely resembled the young man she'd seen earlier in the week.

Until, of course, she had realized that it actually _was_ him, eyes closed, lying at an odd angle that probably would kill his neck when he woke up.

She'd stopped to take sight of him, a wry smile making its way up onto her face without her realizing. He'd looked peaceful then – like he'd finally gotten some quiet from a life that constantly demanded him to be alert. She had always thought her dad's job had sounded demanding beyond what it maybe needed to be when she'd been younger, but then she'd grown to discover that it would run you off your feet no matter what you did; it wasn't a personal choice for many.

Somehow, she'd looked at the young man – _Morse_ , she had reminded herself – and thought that perhaps that wasn't entirely the case with him. He always seemed like he'd be the first to arrive and the last to leave if he was ever given the opportunity.

There was that look of his, though. She couldn't seem to get over it. Even though she was furiously curious, and most definitely _not_ infatuated – or so she told herself – Joan had had to admit to herself that the curiously pleasant face of the Detective Constable made for an intriguing reshuffle of her choices in type. She'd been unashamedly attracted to the dark types – and yet…

He was something very different.

Fair and gentle, and most definitely tight lipped. Not smooth at all. Fumbling and more than prone to shuffling his feet. But there was a keenness and an intelligence in his eyes that had made her keep thinking about him even when the front door pushed him from her reality and back into his own, as it swung back on its hinges and took him from her sight again. Seeing him in her house again was proving just a little unusual. And that was more so than usual, to start with.

The dinner table had had an empty place for him that night, and he'd finally emerged, hair a little rumpled from his awkward sofa-bed set-up, a bleary look in his otherwise wide, blue-green eyes.

"You shouldn't have let me sleep, Sir," he'd muttered, taking a pro-offered seat beside Sam, who'd obligingly budged up at his father's request. He'd been facing her at that point, the soft glow of the lamplight casting the planes of his face in slender lines and gentle slopes.

Some witty conversation had inevitably arisen – it never seemed to end between Joan and Sam, but that was the result of having parents who'd raised them to whip out tongue before someone else could. She'd always been grateful for that upbringing.

 _Once a copper, always a copper._

Always had been the case with her Dad.

He'd looked unusual at that table that night – like he was inserting himself into their family, perhaps as a temporary guest. As Sam had said, it usually took them at least six months before they even crossed the threshold, never mind sit at the table. But maybe that was why Morse was so different. There was clearly something about him that her Dad liked – maybe a shyness or kindness that seemed to be lacking in the others.

Maybe he felt taking on another son – surrogate, anyways – was the right thing to do.

She let a smirk shy of a grin tilt her lips, imagining just how well that setup would work. Knowing Morse, he'd probably continue to say yes to things her Dad said if that's what he wanted.

Although, she wasn't too naïve to believe that he was all gentleness. Men like that usually had some hidden passion in them that only made the surface when all politeness was wasted on others.

Sadly though, he'd only been seated for less than five minutes before work once again called him to the front again, like a soldier called to war when he'd only just gotten back on his feet. Maybe the life of a policeman really _was_ fighting through the hard stuff, Joan had thought.

How right she'd be in the end.

* * *

There'll probably be about three chapters to this, mind - just because it's one big piece and I just want to cut it up a little.

The Endeavour fandom is frightfully small, but then it's a quiet little thing on ITV, so I suppose that's to be expected.

Thanks to everyone who continues to follow my work! It means the world.


	2. Chapter 2 - Home

And part two arrives!

I'm actually rather startled by how easily this fic flowed for me so far. I thought constructing a story based on a subsequently small number of encounters would prove difficult, but hey - there's the imagination for you.

I've added in one or two bits to the conversations, although I'm sure anybody reading has noticed that the dialogue is near exact to the interactions they shared in the first few series'. This is deliberate - I'm telling the story as it is canonically first, and then slowly building up to my own ending.

I really need to stop switching between fandoms at the drop of a hat.

But anyways! I'm really looking forward to the new episode on Sunday - so hopefully I can get this wrapped up sooner rather than later. The new series will certainly expel the truths and inventions of this particular piece of epic nonsense when we see the real writer's look at things.

Thank you also to anyone whose picked up on the Spotify playlist - I hope it's injecting some feeling to the story.

* * *

The following months were the ones where Joan's self-professed 'curiosity' about Morse soon fell apart, when she realized that in reality, she'd fallen for him the moment he'd sent that awkwardly endearing smile her way.

Of course, she'd spent a lot of time trying to ignore it – that was usually what she did, anyway. She'd decided ages ago that it hadn't been practical.

Falling in love with a policeman just wasn't on.

Of course, turning up on the doorstep nearly every morning hadn't helped matters – his bright blue eyes, and shy smile, ever the polite one, often made it difficult to forget him, even when she had become so used to seeing him in tow with her Dad. Apparently the association with her father didn't mar the attraction as much as she would've liked.

Opening the door that Saturday, and she couldn't help teasing him again.

"Saturday afternoon; someone's keen," she'd said appraisingly, arm on the doorframe, able to hear the football on in the next room, her Dad begrudgingly muttering something along the lines of 'No, Sam, left a bit! Yes! There!', while Sam grunted in a sound not unlike that of annoyance.

Morse had glanced at her, the slightest smile twitching at the corner of his lips, but holding back, as if wondering aloud whether he ought to risk such a thing.

Lord, she'd never met anyone as shy as him.

"Miss Thursday," The same greeting as usual, then. It never failed to make her smile, although perhaps that was because it was generally a hard thing not to when he was around.

He had glanced at the ground, only to look past her at the sound of the television, just about audible from the front door.

"I was looking for your father,"

Christ, as if he could have been more formal.

"I thought you were a bit early for a date,"

He had looked at her curiously, eyes widening like an innocent child – perhaps because, in some ways, he was one. Some innocent bystander who, by some miracle (or perhaps nightmare) often found himself the brunt of the joke without ever realizing it.

And to think – he had no idea how she felt about him. It was silly, really – expecting a policeman to be paying attention to _her_ – but Morse was different. He had been since the moment he'd arrived. All quiet charm and endearing awkwardness and formal address and pale features. He'd been nothing like the rest of them – a tenderness not often seen in men, especially young ones. Brash, he was not; cocky, he absolutely wasn't.

A quiet genius, though?

Well, just about anyone had been able to vouch for that at this point.

Of course, she had let him through the door. And, as always, he had slipped past without a word, bar a nod of thanks that always made him look humbled to be accepted.

Lord, she had to stop fantasizing about him.

As time had went on, Morse had become such a frequenter at their house that Joan became an almost nonsensical idiot when he was in the room – no matter the occasion, she seemed to find it necessary that he was always near her somehow, even when she partnered their interactions with a coy smirk and offhand teases that made it seem all too nonchalant and carefree.

And it wasn't.

Like any infatuation she'd ever had, Morse had become the sun to which she necessitating orbiting – because it suited her that way. Every precious moment that he came into the house – still bleary eyed from waking up too early (or staying up too late) – hair still a little wild despite his no-doubt worldly efforts to tame it, she'd been there. Just shying away from him a little. Doing her lipstick and catching his eye. Swishing past him and finding their shoulders brush. Flashing him a smile as she ran up the stairs for the bag that she knew was on the kitchen table.

For everything in the world, Joan was head over heels for him.

And for everything else, he remained oblivious to it.

She felt she should have known, of course. Whenever it had come to the ones that mattered, they'd never looked twice. She was his boss' daughter – whatever circumstances could come of that, romance was not one of them. And Joan had known it from the start.

Morse was Morse. He was everything she might have wanted to have, had she paid attention when she'd first seen him. Of course, chastising her past self from two days ago, every time she came in contact with him, had proved relentlessly frustrating, but it served to remind her of how frustratingly oblivious _he_ could be. Of course, he had his moments – where, for some inexplicable reason, he returned her quick smile or pardoned himself when she rushed by.

And he was ever the gentleman.

It had all come to a head, of course, when she'd looked across the pub and saw him in the corner booth, Constable Strange by his side, by way of an interesting barrier he might have if something went amiss. He'd looked positively struck – like he was pondering the aftermath of a well-aimed slap across the face; there was every chance, Joan had thought, that he'd receive one if he wasn't careful one of these days.

They'd chatted. Albeit stoically.

"How'd you know her?" He'd asked.

"At the bank." She'd turned to look over her shoulder at him, refusing to acknowledge the errant wave of hair that had swept down out of place over his forehead.

"Nobody there really knows what Dad does," she'd said, staring out into the pub with a look akin to that of disdain, if Morse had been reading her expression correctly. Although Joan had always held the opinion that pubs never really worked out for her – often too many people crowded round her, and she hated the idea of not being able to move for bodies – she loved the atmosphere. The warm and communal feel to the place always helped put her at ease. But then, of course, she'd had to look over to the window, only to see Morse muttering something to Strange with a worried frown crossing his features.

'Course, that had turned into an expression of blind shock when he'd seen her across the room, coat not even off of her shoulders.

"I had no idea," he'd said, and she'd believed him, even when she'd told him to drop the 'Miss Thursday''s for a bit.

Watching Strange and his date, Joan had swirled her drink tepidly, having allowed herself to feel only slightly miffed at the idea that this entire thing had been a complete mess from start to finish. Meeting Morse hadn't really been the intention, and it _had_ been a nice surprise – but he hadn't wanted to see her. _That_ much she could tell.

She'd seen the whole thing. How the dark-skinned girl – no older than 25 – had walked in, her friends around her like a comfortable entourage, and turned just enough to see Morse sitting right at the back with someone that wasn't her. The hurt had been evident in her open features, dark eyes more than a little disappointed by the scene in front of her. Joan had stubbornly stared at the grooves in the wooden table as she'd felt Morse's frame brush up against hers as he stood, watching her leave with a hurried step. She'd glanced up only once, only to feel her chest tighten in bitter remorse at his expression.

He'd looked positively distraught.

All wide eyes and parted lips, the dim, bronzed light of the pub casting him like a figure of the so famed Knights of the Round Table. There was that Galahad figure again – innocence and youth distraught at the cruelty and injustice of the world he was faced with. She could tell he was wearing a particularly pressed shirt and he'd taken great care to brush down his suit. He'd looked like he always did – careful and constructed, but nonetheless intriguing in his own quiet, simple way. And yet, the put together appearance hadn't made up for the wrecked expression.

They'd walked out of the pub about an hour later, Joan having held the conversation about as far away as she could from the subject of the girl that Morse had seemed so upset over. It hadn't been selfishness, she didn't think – but perhaps she'd been too generous to herself in that respect. She'd been hanging onto the idea of him for such a long time, that being hit with the reality of his separate situation and the people in it made for a difficult time. She'd known that Morse lead a very different life from her, and had done for nearly all his life; she'd been a brash and fierce child who was too mischievous for her own good; he seemed like the type to sit quietly in the corner and observe, but be the first to put himself in danger if it helped someone else. So, consequently, they were different people, and radically so - and so, perhaps, that also extended to the fact that friendship was about all she could hope to aspire to with him - and quite possibly, only _ever_ aspire to.

She'd heard about the case by that point. The missing girl, and the case that seemed unable to rest in the earth like it should have done; some haunted house nonsense that she'd since stopped believing in about 10 years passed.

As they had walked down the pavement, the streetlamps casting hazy, orange shadows on the road, the air had been crisp but cool, an almost nice compliment to the somewhat chilly feeling Joan had had for weeks now, residing deep in her chest like an infection that refused to budge and go and annoy someone else.

She was outwardly cheerful, but secretly lamenting the idea that a certain Detective Constable had his sights set elsewhere.

She'd known it was silly – unrequited attraction hadn't been a new concept then, and it certainly wasn't one before even that.

"So… anything interesting to report your side of the wall?" Joan had asked casually, watching with a feigned interest at the cars passing by as they had strolled side by side. She caught glimpses of his current appearance every time they passed under the glowing light of the lamps, the orange picking out the auburn in his strawberry blond hair and the freckles across his face, his expression, once again, guarded by some uncertain look of regret.

She'd supposed it was that girl from before.

She'd had nothing against her. In fact, she'd felt rather sorry for her, whoever she'd been, and whatever it was she meant to him. She'd been temporarily bitter about the fact that her supposed date with him had all been a total, unforeseen fluke, and that Morse had put off some date with date with the other girl just to back up Strange. She couldn't quite decide whether he'd been chivalric or badly timed, but she supposed it was a mix of both.

He'd done something stupid, but ever the gentleman, he was beating himself up for it to the point that he was black and blue, that same polite smile on his face, like he felt it against the rules to be honest with people about how he felt.

All about the façade, and nothing more.

"Nothing much – work," he'd muttered, pulling at his earlobe in a habit that she'd kept to herself, watching as his hair curled around his ears with his constant messing about with it.

The whir of a car had passed by, Joan pulling her coat around herself, and they'd continued on in silence. They'd always had the most short-lived conversations.

" _God_ , Morse – if there was ever someone who was more tight-lipped in their life," she'd laughed into the night, puffing out breath as she'd smiled to herself, glancing down at the pavement, making note of how her toes hit the ground in her shoes.

"I prefer taciturn," he'd replied amiably, and there had been a glimmer of a smirk on his lips as they'd passed by another streetlamp, the world still falling into darkness and quiet as it let them have this one walk together, without any repercussions.

"Of course you do," she'd muttered under her breath, almost tempted to kick the pavement in distraction.

It took her a moment to look back up at him again, keeping her teasing smile in place on her face, glad that her eyes had their kohl rimmed look – otherwise, he'd probably realize how tired she looked.

"And you, Miss Thursday?" he'd asked that tentatively, as if he was already aware of how she was feeling. Although about him, she was entirely sure he hadn't a clue about that.

"Alright. Work," she'd mimicked his response, and he'd laughed in kind.

The silence continued.

"Are you alright? You don't seem yourself tonight,"

He'd taken that moment to look round at her, almost in surprise, his coat strangely absent from his shoulders. Perhaps the cool, spring air was what he had needed. She could make out just how slender he was now - almost bony had it not been for his naturally slim features. She supposed she'd been right - maybe he hadn't been eating well lately.

"Sorry. Um, work,"

"You said that," she'd remarked, and he barely glanced in her direction, seemingly lost in the vast emptiness of the sky above them, stars barely visible if not entirely gone altogether.

"This runaway – from the school?" He'd nodded, raising his eyebrows to the ground in admittance, head bowed from thought. He'd always looked like those contemplative statues of the scholars - that she'd been dragged to see by command of school trips - as they were forever intrigued by the smallest of natures in the world, endlessly enticed by the marble page in their hand. She hadn't loved statues, but looking at Morse, and she was maybe beginning to see why the sculptors had spent so long trying to perfect the look. It was worth it when you could see the reality.

It was a look that fitted him well, she'd thought.

Although, maybe it had been his look all along, completely unintentionally.

"You'll find her," she'd said that almost like a promise to him. A promise that was about more than a runaway girl.

A promise about love, and acceptance, and a job well done.

He'd find her, she'd hoped. She really hoped he did – even if, in the end, it wasn't her. Even if the mystery girl of the future, to whom Morse would spend no doubt the rest of his life adoring, wasn't her. Things like this never had turned out the way she wanted, so she hadn't really expected this to come to anything. That had just been her indulging a fantasy.

"Well, I think this is the part where I say 'Thanks for a lovely evening', and _you_ say 'How about a coffee?'. And I say, 'I can't', so we have a long kiss under the porch light until my Dad taps on the window - and I go in and you go home,"

That entire sentence had felt like a rush, too – maybe it had been the thrill of seeing him right in front of her; her Dad's young apprentice – his Leonardo – and finally seeing him without the paintbrushes in hand. He was merely a man, and like everything else, a vulnerable one.

He'd smiled thinly, but somehow softly, like he almost believed her for what she said. Like he could actually envision – for just a moment – how that kiss might play out.

She'd glanced at his lips for too long, she knew. He'd looked so guarded at that point, and yet very open, and probably never noticed. She'd discovered as of late that he thought he was better at disguising his emotions than he actually was.

In actuality, this whole scene had been reminiscent of that time that had started the whole affair.

" _Thought I'd be alright with a copper,"_

" _Well, there are coppers, and there are coppers,"_

" _And what sort are you?"_

 _His smile had been teasing and shy and honest and genuine all at once, Joan thought. Every time, and he still managed to be an absolute gentleman, so unlike all the others before him._

" _I'm the sort that sees young ladies safely home. Go on – I'll wait til you're in,"_

Back then, she'd been such an innocent compared to now. Every time she looked back, Joan always felt she was so stupid in the past. Maybe she'd be constantly stupid for the rest of her life.

"I don't care for coffee,"

Joan had nearly laughed at that – so obliviously stupid in his own way. Really, if she could have been any more obvious, she would've had to tackle him in a kiss until he got the message.

Maybe she had consented herself to the idea – he was still too caught up with that other girl.

She'd just leave him to it.

"At the pub – that girl,"

"I shouldn't have lied," His words had been so characteristically blunt that she'd shook her head in disbelief, sighing good-heartedly. Morse, however he was, seemed incapable of being anything but selfless. He had never made light of what happened in the world – if it was his failing, then by heck he would make sure God himself knew.

"Buy her some flowers," she'd said, smiling as brightly as she could manage amidst the darkness and misfortune that seemed to prevail upon her life no matter what she'd do. Perhaps being a copper's daughter meant that she'd forever be loomed over by her Dad, no matter how much she loved him and his tough, honest love that never wavered in her. Fred Thursday had a way with him that had always been hard to ignore, and apparently Morse felt the same way.

"It's not like that." He'd paused in thought, sighing heavily as his shoulders had slumped and he'd curled his hands in his trouser pockets. He had been the picture of regret that night, Joan thought; perfectly at odds with himself because he'd refused to be upfront one time out of thousand when he'd been exactly that all along.

"And anyway… I don't think she's the 'flowers' type,"

Joan had nearly had to stop herself from raising an eyebrow sardonically in response.

"For God's sake, Morse. We're all the 'flowers' type."

He'd laughed quietly at that statement. She'd said nothing more.

Perhaps the kiss she'd brushed across his cheek - entranced momentarily by the coolness of his skin against her own flushed face – had maybe been a little too much. Maybe it had needed to happen. Whatever the case, she hadn't regretted it.

What she'd always regretted was that she hadn't told him then, and she still hadn't told him now.

* * *

Thank you to everyone who has commented or left a kudos so far! It's a small fandom, alright, but there's some great work to be had in it.

Please read and review where possible, folks! It's like liquid gold to us fanfic writers.


	3. Chapter 3 - Fallout

Thank you once again to the rave reviews I've got so far! I know it isn't as big as Stranger Things (and perhaps doesn't have as many people on the edge of their seats waiting for the next chapter), but I'm really enjoying writing it - so, of course, I'm glad so many other people have found this enjoyable too.

The new Endeavour episode dropped on Sunday just there, so to anybody who has or hasn't seen it - I will be taking my own divergent route, no matter what may transpire in the 5th season. I may weave in some of the canon detail, but since I started this before the new series began, I feel I can take some liberties.

This chapter felt really great to write, so reviews and kudos are always appreciated!

* * *

Of course, Joan had never thought to predict this.

Normally, when it came to her Dad's work, it generally _did_ stay at the door, just as he always requested. Often, it felt like a demand, but she'd been perfectly content to leave it at that. Police work never sounded like something she wanted to get involved with.

She'd still held that thought when the gun had been held to her head.

When she'd asked her Dad, doing the dishes one night, what it was actually like to face off against people who had killed others, Fred Thursday had looked more severe in his life than she'd ever seen him. For all the world, he'd been a loving father unlike any she'd known – and he'd been tough, and fair, and honest, and kind. Kindness was king, he'd always said.

And she'd always believed him.

"It's like looking at death. Just laughing at you. But you stare right back, and you know – you know you've done right by them."

"By who?" she'd asked, although the frown that had creased her brow had most likely already shown that she'd known the answer.

Her Dad had turned round to look at her with his hands in yellow rubber gloves, still in the sink, with a grim frown on his face, and he'd become Detective Inspector Thursday in that moment– not her father.

"The poor buggers they ripped lives away from,"

She'd always remembered that statement since, because to her, that was a confirmation of the one thing she'd known was true –

The world never, _ever_ stopped trying to get back at you.

The bank robbery had felt like a premonition of some kind – even when she'd been hanging out with Paul Marlock from before - who'd charmed her into trusting him, like all the others - she'd always thought it would be like always. No one was ever good enough for her Dad, so she had always assumed that it was always just a tick away from being over. And then she'd start again.

Except, of course, she'd always made the keen remark that being a copper's daughter made life more difficult than it ought to be.

So, yes.

The gun at her head had shot her into reality, rather than into oblivion, and it had said everything to her that she'd tried to forcefully ignore for all the time that she'd been young and innocent and careless with her dreams:

 _You can never truly escape the dark, when the people around you eternally stand at its mouth._

Morse had always said that to her, on the many times he'd offered to walk her home; each time, and they'd launch into a whole new batch of short-lived conversations that seemed to fizz and burst and splutter into laughter all before they reached her front door.

"But surely there're other things you want?" She'd asked one night, back from dancing at a club that had wrecked her feet, making her walk with her heels slung over her shoulder again, hair pinned up into a freefalling wave of black curls that had framed her face, swiping into her eyes every time the lightest of breezes had blown past. The streetlamps had been on again, as they were every night, but Morse had always managed to make it feel like a romantic notion was involved somehow, even when he gave her a respectable berth, forever aware of what the word 'manners' referred to when it came to behaviour.

 _Such a gentleman. Such a daft gentleman,_ Joan had thought, unable to help herself as she'd looked up into his face for what felt the thousandth, ten-thousandth, _hundred-thousandth time_ –

Every time she looked at him, it was like seeing him for the first time again, right on her doorstep like he had been ever since.

Like he had been from the very start.

"Other things? Like what?" Morse had shrugged his lithe shoulders in his dark suit, which looked ultimately a good deal darker than his first ones. He had seemed to be dipping into more sombre colours as of late, like he felt wearing his sadness on his back was the best way to rid himself of it, every time he shed his jacket. She hadn't seen him do any such thing. Apparently Morse intended to wear his sadness like a cloak of shame – crowding his sorrow onto his shoulders to try and be stronger, when all it did was make him vulnerable.

"You know perfectly well what," Joan had smirked at him, taking a step forward to look right up to him, his face tilted down towards her like he ought to be concentrating on her words alone, and for some reason had been neglecting that duty.

God, how she wished that was true.

"I really don't," his face had been the picture of innocence, the hint of a laugh on his lips as he sighed, somehow the laughter still escaping even when he'd tried to conceal it.

Joan had stood there for a moment longer, just looking at him – just to try and see what it was about him that seemed to make her feel like she was standing at the door again, aged seven, looking up at the policemen with her wide eyes and curious frown. To try and understand why these people had fascinated her at such a young age, even when she'd been trying to run away from them and their world all her life since.

He'd looked almost… _unreal_ in that light. The night light. The light that truly seemed to wander around after him as he watched from corners and ran headlong into danger. The night was his mistress – and she'd never allow Joan to have him.

So for all his soft expression, only slightly confused before it had slipped into something a little more understanding, Joan had stepped back again, slapping a hand on his lapel as she avoided his gaze, the line of her mouth resigned to the fact that he wasn't feeling what she did.

And, more than likely, he never would, if she had any kind of idea about it.

So, when she'd been standing with that gun to her head, his answer had slipped through her head.

 _Other things? Like what?_

Watching his face contort into despair and anguish and fear for her life, his eyes wide and panicked, pale face drained of any of the remaining colour he might have had left in it, she'd thought that perhaps he'd secretly known what he'd wanted to say. What other things he might've wanted to do.

Stop that gun from being pointed at her temple, for example, with the blood rushing to her head as she decided that death was staring her in the face, grinning at the misfortune she'd managed to land everyone with.

Joan Thursday had decided, then and there, that she'd had enough of staring Death in the eye.

It had felt like a blur – the whole thing. By the time her and Morse had been shoved into action, pushed around the bank's maze of corridors like misbehaving children, Joan had felt sore in every muscle of her body, aching in all imaginable ways. Her chest hurt from crying and shouting and her heart beating so frantically; her cheeks felt stiff from tears she had no recollection of shedding; her legs felt tight from the pain, the high heels taking stabs at the soles of her feet as she tripped and stumbled into each room.

And through all of it – _Morse_.

Sweet, honest, gentle Morse, who she had still remembered from that first day on her doorstep, too kind to come within a six metre radius of her for fear of being untoward, and suddenly he was shouting at bank robbers – who were armed to the teeth - trying desperately to save the both of them. And she'd seen his job for real that day – all the pure, unrelenting terror and seething danger that had no reservations in snapping its teeth at you if it knew you feared the consequences.

"Just let us go! We'll only hold you up!"

Joan had felt some nagging weight on her chest, like a grudge that vehemently refused to shift from the forefront of her mind, and even then she'd been aware that any false moves and that would be the least of her worries.

The underground network of passages – where archives where generally held – had all blurred into a haze of beige walls and shifting bodies, the thundering feet reverberating around the tight, compact nature of the corridors, and her head had been swimming so badly that she'd hadn't even been sure exactly who was who by that point.

The only thing she had been able to keep a track of was Morse – he'd somehow managed to keep a grip on her as she'd been pushed through the hole broken into the wall, his hands a therapeutic warmth on her arms as she'd felt her body temperature fluctuate with every slight movement. A feeling akin to nausea – but not quite there yet – had already settled in long ago, but she had begun to wonder how much longer it would take before her stomach would empty its contents on the floor.

Morse's voice had punctuated her thoughts again, as she felt him holding her by her arms, close into him for support.

"Well, leave her at least – she's done! You only have to look at her!"

His voice had sounded a little high-pitched then – raw, by most standards, considering how often he'd conducted himself with such composure that you almost could've been fooled into thinking he didn't care.

Joan had since learned that Morse would be one of the first, and last, people to give a damn on the whole earth.

They'd already begun to half jog down the corridors again, dim lights causing the shadows to appear like monstrous dogs on the corners, as Morse had turned round to her as he'd walked backwards with about as much grace as a trapeze artist.

 _How could he still manage to look so composed during such a thing like this?_

"If anything happens, give this to your father."

"But – what is it?" Her voice had been frantic – the book in her hands had felt almost weightless, the lump of fear in her throat and shivering in her nerves making all feeling spare nausea and a sense of disparity of reality possible. Nothing felt like it had been making sense for hours now – like a montage of photos all put in the wrong order, and completely ridiculous in their own, individual right.

"It's the reason Cedric Clissold was killed," Morse had said, voice returning to his somewhat reserved tone as he'd looked over his shoulder, the scent of his cologne mixing with the damp heat of the passage and the faint sweat on his skin – the breezy lightness of his perfume still seemed heady in this place. Like sex withheld in a night breathing to be passionate.

 _God_ , her head was spinning.

"It's blank!" she'd said helplessly, watching as Morse had groaned in agitation, glancing up at the ceiling for some divine intervention that she knew he didn't believe in. If anything, this had been just another cock-up in the grand show of cock-ups.

The names after that – that he'd recited to her – had all felt like a foreign language. Something to do with horses, and even then she'd thought it was stupid. Why did these things have to happen over such trivial pursuits? Why did murder have to be the outcome of men's silly games?

She'd promised herself long ago that she was never going to involve herself in this life.

Now she was beginning to see the reality of her logic.

They'd been continually pushed from one wall to the next, Morse's face the only constant in the whir of action. She'd been paying attention to his words alright – Felix Lorimer, Nina Lorimer, Paul Marlock – but his features had swum into clarity as they'd been shoved up against the next wall, the shouts of 'Move it!' in the background like a broken vinyl record that jumped every time you thought the needle was back in place. He'd look like he was trying to be calm whilst standing on a cliff edge; to be reassuring when the dagger stuck out from his heart. His blue eyes – hypnotic, bright, tired around the edges – had seemed fierce in that dingy light, all traces of formality gone when he could see his own fear reflected in her eyes. His hair was mussed, his suit was stained – dirty and foul and roughed up as they were, they'd found themselves entirely with each other, and his voice had been the one thing she'd been able to concentrate on when she felt like the din around her was crashing around her ears, just so it could see her crumble.

In his wake, she was doing no such thing.

"Well we were meant to, but they intended to kill him,"

"Keep it down!" Morse's bony shoulders had dug into her own as he'd been shoved past with considerable and unnecessary force, the entirety of this affair making Joan feel like she couldn't breathe. He had winced in retaliation, keeping his thin, bowed lips shut for fear that any snarky comment on his part would land him in boiling water when he'd just gotten used to hot.

As they'd stood there, waiting to see what was coming next, Joan had looked up at him, his chin hovering right near her forehead, her arms cradled up to her chest as she'd tried to ignore the thumping rhythm of her heart in her chest, like her rib cage had been almost trying to break free of the flesh.

"Are they going to kill _us_?" she'd muttered, staring at his tie with a feigned interest as she'd tried to regulate her breathing. His own released breath had been long and dreadful, like he wasn't sure himself.

"I don't – I don't know," he'd muttered back truthfully, dipping his head a little as his forehead brushed her own as he looked round the corner. His cologne had invaded her senses, smelling her own sweat along with his, the faint taste of blood in her mouth where she'd bitten her tongue and been too preoccupied to care.

The first man – to hell if she'd forgotten his name – had shouted something incomprehensible as he'd thundered round the corner again. Before she'd even known what was happening, the gun had been aimed and Morse had pulled her flush to him, arms wrapped around her head and ears protectively as the shot had nearly shook her brain in her skull, letting out a whimper as her cheek had rubbed painfully on the material of Morse's suit. She'd felt his own frantic heart through his thin frame, threatening to burst free of his own body, and everything about him had surrounded her like a solitary ocean, even as the roughness of the wall on her back had scraped her skin through the material of her dress.

Everything about this had been rotten – such a terrible, horrid scenario that she had felt almost detached from the whole thing.

He'd refused to let her go until absolutely necessary – his hands cradling her head against him, like he'd feared she'd crumble to pieces like broken china if he even let go for a moment. He'd been warm, but in a rushed way – the hot flush of adrenaline and fear, of his cheek pressed into her hair, and she'd thought perhaps this sudden burst of familiarity between them was too much, when he'd spent months avoiding her very carefully, out of dual respect and genuine modesty.

The rest seemed a blur after that.

Sitting with her Dad in the sitting room had never felt more surreal. Even her mum's hot cup of tea and her Dad's broad palm smoothing her back had done nothing to assuage the guilt and worry she'd kept bottled up all day.

Ronnie Gidderton's blood, smeared on her knee and crusted under her fingernails had almost been too distinct for her to keep a hold of herself.

"You fell foul, that's all. A good night's sleep – you'll feel better in the morning, eh, Mum?"

Her Dad's words had sounded hollow, even when she'd sensed the reassuring presence of him at her side. The kind of secure, safe weight that he carried, that always let her know he was there should she need him.

She'd been independent, once.

Always told people she could take care of herself.

Staring at the grate of the fireplace, she felt like she was seven years old again.

And that had terrified her beyond belief.

She'd nodded mutely, the 'Yeah' she'd uttered sounding like a choke rather than a response.

Her chest had felt hollow. All the remorse and pain and guilt had vanished, to leave her with some empty, vacant space in her psyche that seemed unable to deal with what had happened. Her heart had slowed, her blinking had slowed – her whole body had slowed; the process of shock sending her limbs into shutdown; like rebooting the brain after a coma.

The evening had drifted by. The light had dulled – her room felt empty. She kept seeing the blood, even when she'd closed her eyes; the quilt did gave her no comfort, every time she imagined the metallic tang of the liquid on her skin, pervading her senses like a premonition right on her doorstep. The shadows crawled across the walls. The quilt felt heavy on her shoulders, her hair having been tangled mess from when she got home, and having stayed that way since.

The only thing that had seemed to overrule every terrible, vivid memory was him.

No matter what she had tried to divert her mind with – anything but to have to relive the realistically short but seemingly endless reel of the bank robbery – she had still managed to find her way back to the moment he'd held her. The moment he'd cradled her like a young girl, when she had told herself all along that she was a young woman.

That she needed no one.

To have that shattered before her very eyes – like a mirror cracking into so many pieces that you couldn't see the reflection for the shards – was too sensitive a subject to contemplate.

Vision or not – Joan had thought she'd had all this figured out years ago. Who she was. What she liked. What she couldn't agree with.

And then –

And _then_ –

She'd buried her head in her pillow and refused to move for the rest of the night.

She'd watched the light creep across her bedroom floor – a signal to a day that felt like it oughtn't to have passed. Time had suspended itself long ago for her – the memories felt too fresh, too real, to ever consider wiping them from her mind so quickly.

So much for a good night's sleep, then.

It had been a decision, of course, that she'd never thought to make until now.

Cushy lives lead to cushy thoughts, and that had been Joan's home life since the moment she could see.

Yet…

After everything that had happened, Joan had perhaps thought that trying to remain in a place that clearly didn't have what you needed was perhaps a waste of everyone's time.

The suitcase had come out; the clothes had been folded in, about as neatly as she could manage with her barely trembling fingers – just enough to make her realize the severity of what she had been doing.

And then – out the door.

She'd put on her coat and walked right out – no hesitation, no fear, no consideration.

The parting hug her Dad had left her with felt like a mistake, just before she'd gone up to bed the night before – she'd still remembered the warmth of him; the genuine affection that only a father could give, paralleled only by her mother.

But that had been that.

If Joan Thursday was anything, she was resolute.

The early morning chill had hit her in the face – her tear-stiffened cheeks battered by a cold air that had been barred from her hot, heady room the night before, the place almost stifling her like her dreams had choked her. Some small, terrible part of her had felt that she was being silly – that all of this was her overdramatic response to being exposed to a reality that had never been that far away from her door. Maybe if she'd taken the time to observe things better, this wouldn't have had to happen.

But as things were – she had had to choose, and she'd chosen the only real path open to her.

Departure.

The morning seemed to hold no real reverence to her situation – as always, nature proved to be blissfully ignorant to her struggle, because it had never been its concern. It already had a job to do – and she had been trying to prove a point. She didn't need babying anymore. Certainly not when the blood was still refusing to come out from under her fingernails.

She'd only faintly heard the car behind her – had expected that it might be some passer-by on their way to say their own goodbyes to some long-standing friend, but she hadn't been prepared for it.

Her mind, swirling with thoughts of her mum and her dad and herself, she hadn't expected it.

"Miss Thursday?"

She'd stopped short at the voice, hearing the soft, murmured way he'd said her name – not her true name, but the one he had for her. The one that had stuck no matter how many darned times she'd told him to un-stuff his shirt and talk to her like she was the age she was.

He'd been steadfast. In so many ways.

"Where are you going?"

Her gaze caught sight of him in the early morning light – a soft blue and pale, pale gold haze that made him look like a sepia photograph that had spent too long in the sun. For once, not in uniform, the burgundy, zip-up jumper showing up some red locks to his hair she hadn't noticed before, a bronze glow off of his skin that seemed dulled by the impending reality of what she was doing – what he could see she was doing.

His eyes had also been something of a spectacle – frowning, along with his mouth, for once unsure of what he was seeing in front of him. Seeing _her_ , yes, but not seeing her reasons.

For once, being blind to the facts.

Her gaze had been directed to the ground, trying to calm her nerves by feeling the slight breeze brush across her cheeks – for a moment allowing herself to pretend it was his hand on her skin, brushing away the tears she had stubbornly refused to shed thus far.

"Like this?"

So many questions, she'd thought – and Lord, she'd wanted to tell him. Tell him everything that had haunted her in such a short space of time. To spill her every secret, not just about that incident, but about him too. To tell him exactly why she couldn't look at him and not help but see her Dad, even when his angelic innocence prevailed upon her to fall helplessly, foolishly in love with him, even when it was the most implausible thing she'd ever considered.

Fall in love with a policeman.

 _What a laugh that would've been._

"I have to," Even the words had sounded meek to her. Her brow had furrowed, as if to ask herself why that was her answer. _Why_ was this necessary?

One look from him and already her resolve was crumbling.

 _Damn him._

"Well, where will you go?"

His face had said it all – utter shock, despair, anguish, guilt; something of his own to add to the mix when he considered how truly awful it must have felt to stand in front of him and reject him even now – even when her very being, her very _sense_ – told her that Morse, whoever he may have claimed to be, was not a man to do things lightly.

Coming after her had been a choice. A conscious choice, with some kind of reasoning behind it.

"I don't know,"

She'd looked at him. Carefully.

"Stay,"

The pleading in his voice had almost broken her – some sort of affection that couldn't be translated accordingly. The words would never meet up to the feeling.

"I can't,"

"Just give it time. Everything that happened… just give it a chance,"

His blue eyes – always so hypnotic and unreadable – had lost their scholarly stare, often so removed from what other people said around him. They had been fixed, right on her, a glassy, wet look to them that hinted to a verge of tears that he didn't feel quite enough prepared for. Even his frown had been one of discontent and misery – a pained, hurt look that showed that he knew all too well that his efforts had made no difference.

Ever trying to read his expression, Joan had watched carefully, the panic subsided, as he'd tried to elaborate.

"You mean the world to them,"

She continued to stare on.

"You… - you mean the world -"

The break in his voice – the tilt of his head; the sharp, broken look in his eyes, glinting silently with something he would never admit to out loud; all of it made her stop. Made her blink slowly – only twice – the whole time he had stood there. Swallowing carefully, having recovered from his somewhat fretful admission.

Joan had sighed, turning away her head for a brief moment, placing her suitcase on the ground. She could hear the train in the distance – a breath away from her next words.

Morse's face had contorted into one of blind, childish innocence – shock at the world for having been so cruel to him yet again. She'd seen that look before – blatant and open, for all his youth and beauty, and acquired, humble intelligence. But she had caused this pain, this time, and she'd tried to wilfully ignore that fact as she'd looked up at him – the one man who seemed to be truly, truly heartbroken that she'd bared to think of herself as so out of place, in a world he felt she'd belonged in all along.

"Look after them. Dad won't understand,"

She'd meant it as a request, but he'd taken it as a wound. He'd let out a tentative, shaky breath, breathing in quickly to try and hold back the evident tears.

She had seen him furiously biting the inside of his cheek, blinking once or twice to try and clear his eyes, hands fidgeting by his sides as his chest had risen and fallen with a barely perceptible movement.

"Well… if you need anything… money, or a voice on the phone - you know where to find me."

He had done a rotten job of trying to hide that sadness, Joan had thought.

He'd shed the jacket, it seemed.

It had been pouring out of him – his voice had become ragged then, choking on his words as he had tried to talk around the lump in his throat.

 _He's –_

She'd refused to finish the sentence for herself.

Her hand had come up to rest on his cheek, making him smile back at her weakly, his pale, long-fingered hand coming up to hold her wrist tenderly, his skin cool against her own. She had smoothed her thumb across the scrape of his cheek – a mark upon his face, interrupting the bridge of golden freckles that seemed to dance across his skin like glitter on water. The scenery had seemed to pull him into focus – his sandy blond hair seen in the golden buildings of Oxford; his green-blue eyes like the waters and shrubs that bordered the lakes; the pale skin a testament to the English weather that never let up.

He was Morse.

And by God, she loved him.

"You should get something on that,"

He'd smiled again, sniffing in once – a sort of apologetic grin that lent itself to his sorrow. Her hand had slipped from his face, already missing the solid form he had held in her life for so long.

All the way back to the start.

 _Detective Constable Morse._

What a title, she'd thought.

Now –

 _Now_ , he was just a man.

"Take care of yourself, Morse."

He'd nodded in reply, agreeing with a 'Yep' inaudibly, his smile having been weak and faltering with every minute that had passed. He'd licked his lips once – dry from the cold – and she'd smiled at him one last time, perhaps trying to convey a message he wouldn't understand without words.

Joan had turned her back, her suitcase in hand once again, refusing to let him see the tears that had made their way to her eyes, gathering like subjects to the beheading of the Queen.

"You too… Miss Thursday,"

His voice had cracked, and although she couldn't see him, she could hear him breathe in once, the tears rasping at the back of his throat as she had walked away from him.

She never expected to see him again.


	4. Chapter 4 - Memory

I am ridiculously sorry that I haven't updated anything in so long!

I've had so much work piling up that the stuff I'm working on to put up here has fallen to the wayside so much because there's actual proper work that needs my attention. I just about managed to get this chapter finished - motivation struck me after catching a repeat of Arcadia on ITV last night.

I actually really liked how this one turned out - a little change in perspective, but hopefully you'll all like it.

And yes, I'm freaking out, cause 'To Catch a Spider' isn't even started yet and Infinity War is next month so sue me if I'm procrastinating on ALL of this.

Enjoy nonetheless, people.

* * *

When Joan left, Morse left himself with the unenviable position of having to continue on with life.

Watching her leave had been one of the most heart wrenching moments he'd subjected himself to, and he'd refused to move, for fear he'd miss her parting figure from his memory forever.

In reality, she wasn't all that far away. He hadn't thought so, anyway. No matter what she had said, he hadn't honestly believed that she'd move so far away that she'd cement herself in whatever new place she'd found for herself.

Maybe he hadn't been able to fully reconcile himself to her departure, but he hadn't been prepared to admit to that anytime soon.

Thursday had been distraught, of course – he and Win both had been. The thought that the only child left to them had abandoned the comfort of their company for something akin to loneliness – in a wilderness that didn't compare to the somewhat naively idyllic land of Oxford –

Well, it didn't really bare mentioning, but nobody had been prepared to admit that either.

Turning up at Thursday's door that morning – Thursday himself in a dishevelled, altogether distraught state of dress – had been so raw, and so unfeeling, and quite possibly the most unravelled thing Morse had ever seen to date, with the cold, grey skies and sharp, biting breeze a stark reminder to exactly what they had lost.

What _he_ had lost.

Morse was Morse. But he didn't really feel himself ever again.

And perhaps that was the worst thing.

Turning up to Cowley station every morning was a chore in itself, but became one even more so when he had to subject himself to the idea that Thursday sat in his office in an even more distressed state than Morse could claim to be in. The twinkling gleam of mischief that always seemed to linger behind his boss' eyes – as a testament to a youth never truly abandoned – had fled entirely, leaving him like a grieving individual, mourning the loss of something he had still yet to entirely comprehend.

Morse, on the other hand, was grieving very little. He had dropped himself into a state of longing so bottomless that no amount of alcohol was doing anything to the pain – certainly not the way it should've.

 _Love, I suppose. Don't know until you meet the right one._

How frighteningly right she'd been on that one.

He had found that a tough truth to swallow. Love was not something that a 30-something year old detective in serious need of therapy ever truly considered, but when things got hard, he had often found himself clinging desperately to the idea that there was still hope for him yet. Love was not something Morse had ever considered after Susan – but then, he had supposed, love wasn't supposed to be something you noticed. Perhaps he'd been too used to her company to realize how much he actually needed her. As a bright light to his day, as a cheeky grin as he went out the door each morning, as the passing comment about his uptight manner or 'stiff' personality, accompanied with a giggle and a bite of her lip, making him wish he'd done something to deserve it.

Joan had been…

She'd been something he'd refused to acknowledge as what she _actually_ was, content to live in ignorance if it meant he could lie to his heart and pretend he didn't care either way when she went with a different guy.

He'd felt jealousy's cruel bite before, but it hadn't been that. It had never been jealousy. Just an empty longing that he'd never acted on. The longing that came with wishing for your childhood – or in his case, the rather lack of one that had made him dream of one all his life. It was the desperate pining that carved out holes in your chest and let your blood weep freely, and watching her walk away had skewered the wounds even deeper into his chest, the dagger left behind and stinging in the gaping injury.

He hadn't dared try to remove it since.

The pain had been one thing – he could just about deal with that. It had been awkward, trying to talk to Thursday, the topic always skirting along the edges of every conversation they had, but the worse part was trying to move on. Trying to understand how to continue, knowing she was out there and alone.

Morse hadn't been able to take that part at all.

The bottles had stacked up in his room, emptied for no other reason than numbness – as a form of relief when he'd felt the pain was even becoming too much of a burden. And yet, her smiling face and dark eyes had prevailed, leaving him near crying out in exasperation, frustrated that he'd latched onto her so quickly, for someone who'd spent years skirting around _her_.

He hoped she bloody well knew how much trouble she'd caused for his heart.

Time had passed. Weeks bled into months, and that had been a somewhat antiseptic to the sting. Work was always a good way to drown one's sorrows, and Morse generally found that such antiseptics were well-welcomed in a world that demanded he looked at the present, sorry state of the world. He had turned corners and seen people every day, possibly considering one thousand and one different ways to leave the way she had, and he'd walked right past, ignoring those realities, because all it did was make him re-evaluate the sting he'd accustomed himself to. Like realizing how much the bruise actually hurt. Like noticing the bone sticking precariously and almost ridiculously out of the skin, only _after_ you'd dodged the danger.

He'd been in denial, and he'd known it, but he'd done nothing to stop it.

Each case came and went – murderers, as usual. He'd always been only slightly panicked at the idea that so many people ended up dead in this city, and perhaps with so little warning that the whole thing all blurred into one. And, of course, the whole malarkey that had surrounded his exam paper had set his teeth on edge long after it had happened, making him feel like personal tragedy was being inflicted by any means possible. Anger had been an uncommon emotion for him in the past; passiveness had always been his road.

Now, he seemed unable to quell it.

It was anger at everything. Anger at people who destroyed lives. Anger at those who said things behind collars when he appeared disinterested in the conversation. Anger at himself for not doing _more_. Anger at Thursday, even, for sometimes being so obliviously old, even when he'd already jumped bullets for the man and would happily do so again.

Morse had never felt angrier in his life. It bred like snakes in the pits of his stomach, writhing and coiling around every nerve as he snapped and snarled his way through what felt like hell-induced misery on earth. All with his quaint, fake smile he used when he felt words too easily able to ruin his career if he said what he actually felt. The smile he used right before he dipped his head to the floor and started pulling at his earlobe again.

What happened with Joan – well, Morse had decided that dwelling didn't help. It never had. And yet no matter what he'd tried to do, she kept coming back to him, reminded constantly by Mrs Thursday's pale, drawn face that seemed at odds with her usual cheery demeanour; a brave face for the sake of one, because she was a mother, and weakness was condemned.

If anything, normal life provided a small but sure escape, as opera singers catapulted into the dim, largely uncomforting light in his flat, weeping and crying and begging for mercy in languages only trained ears could understand, even when the words held no definition. It was loss, he supposed; the misery in everything became extraordinarily clear. He hadn't liked it – it had made him feel like a pathetic excuse of a person; a reversion back to the stroppy boy Thursday had found cooped up in a shack in the woods, too sulky to realize that being so darn stupid wasn't solving anyone's problems, least of all his own. _That_ encounter had been a stark reminder of why he was always so darn stubborn; when it came right down to it, Morse couldn't help but see Oxford in its dying light, the new world draining it of its old glory and seeding it with the new world's woes. It had been an unfair realization, he had gathered, but a necessary one.

He was a copper, and coppers moved on.

So that's what he did.

'Course, that hadn't worked out at all when the call had come through. Some weird, early morning thing that still felt like night-time and usually meant Morse's liver had tricked his brain and shocked him into existence again, despite the fact that there'd been no sound nor voice to be heard across the crackling line.

It had been an encounter without anybody – like conversing with silence in the hope of finding ghosts. Perhaps pointless, but something he hadn't been able to help himself from hanging his hopes on. It was like hearing someone tell you they loved you – a phrase thrown about with little relevance in the grand scheme of things; it had just slipped out. And yet you would hang onto it because it gave you hope yet that they might still reciprocate everything you had felt from the beginning.

But they never did.

His resolve had crumbled – crashed to the floor in shards of glass and pierced his skin and left him bruised and sore from the whole incident. He'd hurled the telephone across the room in a fit, his teeth gritted and splitting his lip as he sunk his teeth into it as he tried to control himself. The cool sunlight had peeked through the windows to see if he was alright, and he'd stood as a defeated figure, hands gripping his hips as he'd traced the curls of the carpet with his eyes, breathing heavily. His hands had found his head, gripping his curls so tightly he could've ripped them from the follicles, had it not been for the complete lack of energy that was sweeping through his muscles.

He'd been too broken by that point – like patching up gaping holes in things that couldn't be fixed.

Joan was _gone_.

And it _hurt_.

It hurt so badly that he couldn't take it anymore. He'd furiously looked for some way to get to her – Leamington – and then he'd found himself at his desk a few nights later, constructing an image of her that looked nothing like her, in fact, but was enough to spark the memory of her snorting laugh when he said something much too proper for someone so young.

(He was young, but he'd never felt that way.)

(Well, she'd made him feel young.)

He'd made the decision perhaps too quickly – as an instinct rather than a rational thought, but he'd been so far past rationality by that point he'd practically waved it goodbye as he'd driven off the kerb. The morning had set in, cool and grey – so typical of an English morning – and the rain from the night before had dappled his windscreen like the metaphor for his life.

Emotion getting in the way, as usual.

The tunnel he'd driven through had given the perception of night, with its yellow lights and enclosed space, but he'd continued on, blithely unaware of his surroundings as the road signs pointed their fingers at his destination, almost glaring at him for being so foolish.

He hadn't really cared by that point.

He'd arrived at about 8 in the morning, looking a little worse for wear than he would've liked – all dishevelled hair and dark suit, like he was trying to look presentable at a funeral – but again, he hadn't cared.

He hadn't cared in a very long time.

It hadn't been what he'd expected. A very suburban feel to it – like the TV advertisements that promised modernity and delivered the past. The sixties wasn't a place Morse had ever felt quite fit in with him. Life was all about change and constantly had been – but this era, whatever was good about it, there was something desperately wrong with it too. People too eager to rush around and be with the times, like a repetition of the twenties, but lived through his own perception, rather than that of F. Scott. This was no glamour, or elegance divine – Leamington was like everywhere else. The Royalty's red post box and the block flats and the neat green lawn, all pretending to be just grand when the pale grey sky was sighing down at them, asking them to stop playing with their façade. This was a place at home with its fake smiles, and somewhere inside it, there was a girl who was pretending that she could survive knowing she'd left the people she'd never wanted to leave in her life.

He had closed the door on the telephone box carefully, glancing up with a hesitant look in his eyes that belied all sense of the panic and fear and crushing nerves that were circling his system like blood in the veins.

The trip inside had been minimally depressing – a stark reminder that not all places exuded warmth on their own, like the house of the Thursdays. People like Win needed to be there to spark life into a place – to be the centre of it all. Because nothing mattered if she couldn't brighten your day.

It felt like a place for the abandoned -

-or, perhaps, a place for those who wished to be.

The occupant of the room had opened the door, looking about as washed out as the walls he lived in.

The usual lines began.

"Hello, sir. Detective Constable Morse, Oxford City Police."

He had looked wearily on.

Morse had opened his lips partially, hand wavering in the air a little with his identification.

"Mister -?"

"Booth,"

Morse had licked his lips at that, not sure where to go from there. They were getting dry the more he thought about how close he was.

 _Around the corner, and down the hall…_

"Have you seen this lady?"

He'd handed over the shoddy picture with a grimace, hope fluttering around his heart like a moth too quick to the flame, desperate for light but unaware of how close it was brushing with death.

"She's not in any trouble,"

Booth had looked at him once, sighing himself, and said,

"Fifty four,"

Morse had looked to his right, hands feeling clammy as he twisted his fingers around the corner of his badge in his pocket, tapping his foot lightly.

 _Fifty four._

He had thanked him, making a deliberate, slow descent into hell as he'd walked the corridors, looking down the door numbers like he was looking for a headstone.

Perhaps this had all been a mistake.

Perhaps –

He'd rung the doorbell, only to watch the door click open and see her dark eyes peer out from behind the wood, a flimsy top covering her skin, bra strap hastily tucked beneath it, hair sitting like a half-attempted sweep-back with her hand pausing on the door, the look in her eyes becoming fearful and shocked and blank in all one instant.

"Morse,"

His name had been a reminder that this was no fairy-tale meeting.

She hadn't expected this.

And he was no knight.

He'd nodded once, attempting a smile.

 _It's her, it's her, it's her, it's –_

"Miss Thursday."

* * *

One quick note:

The line 'Around the corner and down the hall' is the opening line of one of the songs on my Spotify playlist, 'youarefire' by LANY. I've felt it perfectly sums up the mood of this relationship, so please apply anything you read here with that song in mind. It be hella good.


	5. Chapter 5 - Refusal

Sorry once again for the late update!

As many know, life creeps up and steals you away from what you want to do.

But I watched the Series 5 finale tonight - after a RIDICULOUS amount of time - and I just had to get back to this.

That ending, folks. That bloody ending.

I know I said I was taking a divergence from series five, but I've been left with the perfect opportunity to continue it with no strings attached. Hopefully you'll all be happy with that.

For now, have a flashback to series 4. Some particular songs from the playlist for this chapter, just because I got hooked on them for the particular feel of the thing: Mercy Street by Banfi (repeat, repeat, repeat - it fits so well) and On Hold by Fenne Lily.

As an addition, be warned - there are moments of domestic violence in this chapter, so if that's a dodgy area for you, don't worry about just skipping it. It won't affect your reading of the story.

More to come, as always.

* * *

Whatever it had been, Morse hadn't known how to approach it.

Whatever he'd been expecting, he still didn't know.

Even watching her walk into the flat had seemed tense – like a moment all tangled up in its separate parts, unsure where to begin where it left off from the last time.

He supposed that was true – in many instances, anyway.

"I had a reverse charges call from Leamington,"

One glance over from her, as he'd made his way in through the door, shutting the door softly behind him as he'd come up beside her, standing in front of the mirror, tying her necklace around her throat.

For all the world, a pretence of normalcy. A lack of shock.

Maybe a way not to have to look at his face.

"Well," she breathed, fastening it with a swift motion, fiddly with two hands but making it look effortless – years of practice.

"It wasn't me," She went to slip on her top – a knitted thing with no sleeves - standing in front of the mirror again as she did the buttons up, still pointedly ignoring him. He wished he could've pretended not to be miffed at it – the truth was he was too hyperaware of it _not_ to.

"Oh. Right,"

It had sounded lacklustre – a lie on his lips before he'd even said it – and he'd known it. He'd known full well that his offer had stood between them, and she'd taken that call. She'd made _that_ call. No matter how she'd denied it – even now, even with him in the room – it still stood.

She'd chosen, and now: here they were.

"Well, I – just wanted to see… how you were."

Another lie. He'd been desperate, even if his blank, yet somewhat still surprised expression betrayed him. For two months, or more, she'd been his thought, his every waking hour. His curse, his nightmare, his daydream looking out the window. The girl he'd reminisced on and cared about and tortured himself over, because he'd never had the guts, and then, as always, he'd been late to the party – and missing the chance to tell her what he really felt.

It had happened once. And here, it had happened again.

Maybe curses in love where how these things usually went for him. He hadn't been sure – and yet, maybe it had always been a case of knowing. Maybe he'd just kept pretending it could be different every time.

He had licked his lips once, pausing at the open door to a living room of sorts, stepping in with a careful tread, knowing that this entire confrontation was a knife's edge. Step too far, say too much – it would all fall through, and crash to the floor like china pieces.

Too broken to ever be put back together.

"I'm fine,"

Joan, for all her flaws, had been a professional at sounding cheery; at sounding unperturbed by situations. _Always time for a smile_ , she'd once said to him, tilting her head to the side and giving him one of hers, full of brilliant joy and hilarity, smiling at his obliviousness and chastising him for being so gloomy.

 _Like an oil painting_ , she'd once said.

Like the lovelorn subject, left to mourn, and thus wearing his frown forever.

Even watching her back, coming past him like this was all entirely normal, had felt strange; unsure; odd.

Unfair, even. Because, even then, he hadn't been sure what he was doing. Why he was doing it.

"What're you doing with yourself?"

She'd sat down, sighing again like he'd turned up at her door again, asking a silly question before she'd let him in, that smirk on her face.

In all other circumstances, it could have been.

He'd of course have to remind himself one of these days that his penchant for finding himself in love, regretting it, and then missing everything was becoming too much of a habit to bear.

"Doing with myself?" Incredulous. That's how she had sounded. Like she couldn't honestly believe what on earth he'd thought, turning up so suddenly.

The sudden urge to question her further on not just calling, properly, had almost been too much. To leave and never return was one thing; to leave and not even really mean it was something else.

"For – money," The answer had sounded sufficient, as he'd looked around. It had been a common flat, much like what the suburban paradise outside promised – all trendy wallpaper and interesting doorways, pastel shades and hippy flowers on everything that had made him lament the loss of classical style; of rustic reds and old record players, catching dust as people made love in the husky light of dawn. His flat felt like that – save the love part.

It was always like that for him.

No – there had felt off-beat; too common. Too common for Joan, too common for the conversation. Too easily supplanted with a dozen flats as similar as the next – because he'd felt that they were two people apart from that social ideal. Of suburban happiness. Neither had been happy in a long time and yet the smiles had remained.

The wallpaper – the chairs, the discarded cups on the draining boards, the newspaper abandoned on the coffee table-

It had been too common, and he'd hated it. Hated it the minute he'd walked in.

This was no place for Joan.

Never Joan.

"I told you – I'm alright," her laugh hadn't sounded entirely sure.

"Yeah, I see,"

Clearly.

"And uh - what about you?" The metal clinked, and a cigarette had made it into her hand. His look of surprise had startled her, because it brought her back to that moment on the pavement – and she remembered his look, his gaze; the ferocity of his shock, wiping clean all that professionalism from his expression, and leaving him raw to her words.

It hadn't been compute with the man in front of her – how he'd stood there, his dark suit clean-cut and stark on his shoulders, freckles a little more prominent on his nose, bow lips seemingly parted in surprise forever.

Exactly as she'd left him…

But not the same inside.

"Me? Uh -" he'd paused, because of course the answer was obvious. Work. No point pretending that had changed. It never had.

"Just- just, work."

He'd looked to the floor then, feeling like his 7 year old self again, chastised for being too bookish, and lying when he'd said he'd been out with the other boys. He'd been in the corner of the field, a book in his lap, struggling over words that should never have been under his deciphering eye, and his father had looked at him like he'd been unable to believe that he'd been his own. Like the sandy mop of hair and bright, blue eyes and quivering lip, knowing what had been coming next, had nothing to do with him.

Morse had remembered being unable to change his answer, even when his father had known he'd lied – and now, the same thing had happened here.

It had always been work.

Always, always –

 _Always._

Her plume of smoke from the first drag of the cigarette had looked unimpressed, so he'd smiled, that easy, tense thing he put on his face when he knew his words meant nothing.

Her offer of the drink had made the whole scene feel a little lessened of the tension, if only because he'd known that he'd been given respite from her prying eyes, stripping him bare to his bones before he'd really thought to articulate anything sensible bar 'Hi.'

That had always been his failing – emotional, and the regret not having planned ahead for it.

There had been a split between them this whole time – and then, all that had separated them was a wall. Thin and easily broken through.

Thin, and yet enough.

She had handed him the squash, her own glass in hand, and he'd felt the place shift. They'd trespassed over their biddings; now, there had to be an explanation.

"I'd better you didn't tell mum and dad you'd seen me,"

"You should get in touch, or drop them a line, or… something. Anything. Anything at all,"

"So, what?"

His shrug, to her, had looked innocent – like even he hadn't known what good it might do. Even in the light coming in through the flimsy curtains, he'd reminded her of that time way back when – his soft features, paused for thought like that time from before.

He'd looked so young, and innocent, and raw again – as he'd always done when he'd been around her, never sure what to do with himself when she was around, looking lost, and full of despair.

Full of hurt, and left to curl inside of himself when the truth screamed in his ears and tore his heart from him.

Golden, yes – his hair, his skin, his lips – but fallen into darkness.

His eyes had never left her.

"Just – let them know you're alright,"

She'd looked annoyed at that, taking a drink from her glass, eyes diverting to the nearest object on the coffee table, adamant that she would not be sucked in by those bright eyes and blatant stare, like she had done when he'd stood at her door the first time. She couldn't let it keep happening.

She'd moved to avoid her Dad, yes –

But she'd moved because it was enough to tell herself that leaving him would do her a good she'd only accept years down the line.

"The right thing," her huff of annoyance at that had been adamant. "Ah, the right thing. I've always done the right thing for all the good it's done - and look where it got me,"

His face had burned at the presumption, eyes hardening with a defiance she'd become far too accustomed to.

"What happened at the bank – it wasn't _your_ fault that Ronnie Gidderton died,"

Her glance at him had been mocking, intrigued, sceptical, perceptive, clear. He'd known her to be shrewd – and coarse where the truth was involved, but never cruel with it. Never hurtful.

She'd only ever been hurtful to herself, and sometimes that ended up worse.

"We both know that's not true,"

His expression had looked annoyed too – still in disbelief that she felt the same way, even after everything. She kept getting glances of the man who had pleaded with her to stay, the tears catching in his eyelashes, his lip bitten into a frenzy as he'd tried to ignore her stubborn refusal. She had kept refusing him, kept him hanging – but it had never been her fault. It had always been his. Always been his fault that he'd never realized, all the times before, that this girl had wanted him and loved him long before he'd realized he'd loved her.

"Daughter of a police inspector," There it was again – the thing that really haunted her at night; that constant reminder that she couldn't ever be the normal girl she'd always wished for, free of the restraints.

Morse's expression had been distraught.

"Well, it doesn't matter now, because I'm not coming back,"

For all the world, turning around to avoid the look on his face was becoming a habit – he'd so often enamoured her with his long gaze and parted lips, as easily welcoming a kiss as much as a comforting word, but she hadn't been able to deal with it.

Morse – well, he'd felt more confused than ever, setting his glass on the sideboard as he'd looked to her, watching her hips sway a little as she'd made for the mirror again, lipstick in hand, having been far too casual.

This whole conversation had felt wrong, and maybe it always would have been, no matter how they might have ended up there.

"Why? What – what will you do?"

"I dunno. Go abroad, maybe? I don't care," she had rubbed her lips together, checking the colour. It would've suited her regardless.

She'd dared to look at his face – the mere haunted look of despair and anger at her response.

"I do,"

She had raised an eyebrow, lipstick paused as she had breathed once.

"You shouldn't," It had felt like an admission, because all along she knew he had; all along, he'd been none too subtle at telling her there had been _something_. But whatever it had been, it was lost to time and a girl who hadn't run away. A girl who had been taken with the policeman on her doorstep.

A girl long since gone.

She'd come forward then – watching his eyes, watching his chest, his mouth. He'd looked – alone, despite her company. Like everything she'd said to him was rushing back and he was caught in the midst of it all.

It had been just the two of them.

"You know – I thought -"

What had she thought?

That he'd have kissed her on the porch that night? That he'd have walked her home and then taken her for coffee the next day?

That he'd even give her a smidge of hope that he'd looked at her like she had at him?

Yes. She had.

Too many times.

"I thought, for a minute -" She'd looked to his eyes, watching how they kept her, sandy hair a little curlier than before, mouth still parted with words he hadn't thought of then, his breath just a little closer and smelling a little of the sip of orange squash she'd given him 5 minutes ago.

"All those times you walked me home," She had turned up her chin at the statement, watching him.

He'd stayed absolutely still.

"Perfect gentleman and you never tried it on, not even once,"

It was an admission for him, not her, she'd felt. A reminder that it wasn't solely a mark on her card.

He'd breathed again, eyes blinking once as he'd glanced to her mouth and then back to her eyes, a stray curl of dark hair close to being caught in her eyelash.

The temptation to sweep it away had been phenomenal.

 _Nearly_.

"It's funny how things turn out,"

His look to her – all in one second – had sent her heart racing. A lean forward, no music, no keys turning, no shouts from next door. The place had been quiet, still – hanging in wait for what might happen.

He'd swallowed, once.

"It can turn out how you want it to,"

His tone had been husky, unguarded – different from his pleading, but different from _him_.

Different to hear him so raw, when he had been just inches from her.

Just inches from everything.

"You should – you should probably go," She'd heard herself say it, and regretted it instantly, looking to the ground in shame and out of dignity for her expression. Any longer looking at him and she'd give in. Never be able to refuse him again.

She had felt his eyes on her, watching his hands at his side as he'd clasped them, slender and beautiful in their own, untouched, statue like way. Again, a Roman bought to life from the marble he'd sprung from, but never truly in touch with the skin he'd acquired. A living statue – heart-achingly beautiful, cold, but remorseful; and forever just shy of her, never truly having understood what had happened between them.

So he'd left.

He'd left, and watched someone else go to her door, a ring slid from a finger too easily to have been any genuine sort, and he'd watched the door open and close, and he'd let the lift doors shut in front of him.

And he'd left.

And even as she'd kissed Ray– a hello seconds after a goodbye – she'd regretted it.

She'd wanted Morse.

But – just like always – she'd let him go.

 _So he had left._

It had been the slamming door of her father leaving his misery with her that had set off the alarms. She had felt confident in refusal before, but then, it had become a weapon as much as a choke hold.

Ray's footsteps had been heavy going past her and she hadn't dared to think how the next moments might have played out.

Badly, was usually the answer there.

That day, it had been worse.

"Father, huh?" The word had sounded like poison in his mouth, despite the wry smile that had taken over his face, pouring out some alcoholic beverage that would serve as his excuse.

"Yeah," she'd muttered in return. "But he's gone now. Doesn't matter,"

Ray's glance over his shoulder had sent a chill spinning down her spine, shoving her hand in her trouser pocket as a way to disguise her trembling fingers. It was enough.

Ten minutes later, and Ray had popped out, saying he'd left his cigarettes in the car, and then twenty minutes later, he'd come back in with blood running down his mouth, glasses knocked askew.

Joan had swallowed.

 _Oh, Dad – what have you done._

"That bastard hit me," he'd snarled, wiping his mouth, striding to the cupboard again with little thought to notice that Joan had slipped into the other room, trying to remain within watching distance of the door. Avoid the corners, as always.

An hour or two later, he'd lost it.

Something about – _'you're some piece of shit like him'_ – and another thing – _'Disgusting'_ – and something else –

 _'Whore.'_

As if he could really say anything to _her_ about affairs.

"As if," she'd snapped, slamming the glass down on the table, despite the fear that had crept into her voice, skin having gone cold like ice as she'd watched every movement, every stalk across the kitchen linoleum, every glance her way that had confirmed she'd be looking out of one eye soon enough.

He'd looked at her, glass still in hand, and his mouth had curled.

" _What_ did you say to me?"

That cool tone had made her go wild once. Now –

Now, it made her mouth go dry.

It had been one thing to pretend that it would never happen again. It was another to look ahead to mere minutes and realizing the scenario was playing out again – just in two different positions. Closer to the door than last time.

But she'd seen the look in his eyes, and she'd bolted.

She'd sprinted for the door, but he'd been too quick, yanking her arm back with a grip like death, sneering down at her like he'd been about to crush a bug under his feet. She'd spat in his face, an attempt at defiance – and a successful one, because next thing she'd known, he'd thrown her against the wall and swung his fist up to her face, smashing her skull against the wall with the impact, realizing the cry of pain was in fact her own.

But she'd grabbed her coat, ducking under his next swing, ignoring his yells at her, and she'd fled down the stairs, past the car park and into the street, glancing back up at the flats, wondering if she'd see his face peering out at her, waiting to see her next move. Her heart had been pounding inside her rib cage, threatening to break her chest.

The sting around her eye had had her head throbbing, the back of it making her eyesight dizzy as she'd stumbled ahead a little, catching the phone box with her hand and shutting herself inside, the smell of the yellow pages enclosed within the small space a comfort as she'd pressed herself into the panes of glass, the security of this closeted box a little quieter than where she'd come from.

In an instant, Morse's face had flashed in her mind's eye – a reminder that only the week before, he'd been there. Looking at her like he couldn't honestly say he'd believed she'd begun existing in a place like that.

That gaze she'd held for so long – in so many situations. Always there to keep her safe, and from harm, even if she'd never needed it. Every situation hadn't required it.

But he'd been there. Offering his coat and his warmth and his heart –

And she'd taken it for granted. And he'd walked away, because he was never going to force himself on her.

Never like that.

So she'd stood up straight, ignoring the salty taste in her mouth, from blood and more, and the head-numbing pain in her eye, and she'd taken the bus and she'd left.

To where, she hadn't known.

Just somewhere that wasn't there.

"I went to Leamington,"

Thursday had looked at Morse's face in the dull, afternoon light, clouds obscuring the sky, and he'd seen the panic.

He'd have seen it a mile off.

Young as he was, Morse hadn't yet perfected that look of indifference – every emotion had its slot in his archive of expressions, and each was as obvious as the next. Even with his jacket from his shoulders – even though Thursday knew he was hitting 27 at some point, he'd looked like a teenager caught out after hours, with a girl in his arms he shouldn't have been holding.

Except that wasn't Morse. Never had been.

They'd stared at each other, each looking as annoyed and despairing as the other. Morse just looked like he'd been hit by a train as well, and to boot.

"… You should have said something," The tone had been clipped, and to Morse's ears, annoyed. But his boss' anger was no new addition to his personality; far be it that he'd never suffered under it before. Thursday would cause rifts in the Earth if it meant getting answers. Often that had never boded well, but he'd done it anyway.

He'd done it anyway.

Christ, that applied to him too –

"What could I have said?"

Pass it off nicely, he'd thought.

Thursday watched him; his casual shrug, his tight smile, hands shoved into his pockets. Altogether, a mess like he was, but then – Thursday was wearing his hat. He hadn't gotten to that stage yet.

Morse was already in acceptance – given up. Thursday was still in denial.

"That you'd seen her, that she was alright,"

"It wasn't my place,"

"It wasn't your place to go looking for her but you still did, didn't ya?" The firm line of Thursday's mouth had made Morse cringe, glaring up at the sky as if it was somehow to blame for all this. How often had they had this conversation now? Was Joan really always going to be the gulf between them, never agreeing between them about how she ought to be treated?

But that was the truth of it. Morse had known – and looked it – as he'd stared at the grass beneath his feet, pursing his lips a little as a stray tendril of hair had blown into his vision. Downward cast – in sorrow, forgiveness, regret.

Thursday had seen it. He always did.

He'd sighed in resignation.

"Ah, well -" He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the anger away. This hadn't been Morse's fault. If anybody was to blame, it was those criminals.

"Maybe we both had a wasted trip."

Morse had looked up at that, a hard gaze in his eyes. Birds chirped from beyond, a slight rustle in the trees as the wind had carried on through – a faint murmur to nature still carrying its course no matter how they stopped in their own, stuck in feuds and dealing with situations that each felt like the end of the world.

It was always the same.

Morse had looked out at the scene, handing Thursday the small paper booklet in his hand.

Time to move the conversation on.

"I found this – in Laxman's glovebox." Current police talk had always helped cause distraction – work, work, work. That's all he had these days.

The wristwatch on his left arm had been itching his skin for hours now, his grip on his jacket tight as he'd clenched his teeth, avoiding Thursday's gaze, Joan still on his mind. Whatever she'd decided to do, he couldn't have changed it. He'd never had that opportunity and he certainly didn't have it now.

"The Grange. That's Doctor Berger's address. He was away that weekend, wasn't he? Well, you better go and find out what's what,"

The pamphlet had been shoved back into his hand, Thursday avoiding his gaze. Morse swallowed once, trying to avoid snatching it back as he'd taken it again. The chill of the breeze on his face had suddenly felt more painful to the nerves than before.

Silence was a killer.

So he'd walked away again, licking his lips once, glancing to the hillsides as he'd made his way back to the car, glad to have had the support of the leather band of the steering wheel under his fingers.

Something solid. Real.

Thursday had been left staring out at the hills.

Morse hadn't bothered to ride him back.

The conversation was closed.

It was on the walk home that Morse felt like he'd be as well packing it all in.

He'd been feeling like that regardless, but that feeling had been shaking his head in the past hours. Rattling his brain around in a tin, so to speak. Demanding his opinion on the matter, even if it made him do the rational thing regardless of his heart's pleads.

It was also on the walk home that Joan Thursday had sat on the brick wall, a pale shadow in the night as she'd looked to him, watching his slow stop in front of her, again out of his work suit and in some ensemble of comfort and old-man-at-home that made him look like he'd been studying classics at the nearest university.

She'd thought that perhaps that had suited him better than anything she'd thought of for him.

Surrounded by the old world, carved from his stone – Galileo hunched over his manuscript, contemplating stars and love without the slightest idea of how to write it down.

The night around them had faded into its background, content with the noise; the roaring engine of a car at peace with driving slow; the nearest dog barking in an alleyway unseen but not unheard by all neighbours; the golden orange streetlamps casting shadows on faces, and it reminded Joan of too many a time when he'd walked her home and become her knight one last time. Before it had all gone wrong.

He'd stopped in front of her, hands searching for keys or a grip on life or a way to cover his hands – and she –

She'd stood up, because it had felt like a ceremony, a question, a hated display of weakness, cigarette dangling from her fingertips, already regretting the smell of smoke in the air and the dark shadows under her eyes.

And her marks, too.

"Hello,"

That word was enough to throw her all the way back to when he'd first stood on her doorstep – downey hair and a half-smile that belied all sense of comfort at the notion of talking to his boss' daughter, only a week or so into the job. They'd both been innocent then – both in awe of each other's newness; something indescribable.

Now they had become strangers constantly saying they'd never see each other again, and Fate deciding they were both too stupid to do what was best for the both of them.

Joan hated Fate, but she'd listened to it.

"Hello,"

She had hoped the word had been important to him too.

Standing in her turquoise green coat felt frivolous; standing outside his house had felt daring.

She'd taken the train down, one scrap of money left to afford the trip. Maybe it should have been enough incentive to never go back, but looking at his face had reminded her almost instantly why she could never stay here for long. Morse, God help him, was a reminder of everything that she'd tried to leave behind. Pity. Defiance. Comfort. Same-old, same-old.

And yet…

She'd still come.

He'd looked once, assessing her – dark hair obscuring her face as well as the darkness did. A reminder to him, too.

All good things had to be taken preciously – otherwise you'd lose them to pits you'd dug for them yourself.

"Do you want to come in?"

The question had hung, nervously awaiting the answer between them. A messenger to Cupid about the state of things.

 _These two are still dancing around each other?_ Cupid had probably been swearing at them.

A pause; a hitch of breath.

"Yeah,"

She'd lead him in.

The steps hadn't felt long enough a descent for him to get his mind in order, the cool railings leaving water on his hands from a rain he hadn't remembered seeing. If he could just _tell_ her, explain –

Tell her –

Morse had sighed internally, awaiting inspiration.

None had come.

So he'd jangled the keys, slipped past her with a half-hearted smile, and he'd opened the door, allowing them both in.

To his house, to his heart – who knew anymore.

Frankly, he'd already done both.

The intimacy of night had always been most keenly felt in houses that weren't your own – Joan had always thought so. It had been the same when he'd come to the house every few mornings to pick up her father – an intrusion upon her familial existence, as merely daughter and washer of dishes when asked. She'd been a girl, a consort – a sister who jabbed her brother in the ribs when he pissed her off. Morse had entered that realm and created new dimensions within that sphere, interrupting her space with something new. Something keenly felt.

A young man in buttoned up shirt in buttoned up personality too, and his angelic face a reminder that life existed outside her Dad's frown at late bedtimes and her mum's smirk at love confessions.

She'd been interrupting his space then – joining his side of the fence, his look of the place – uncared for, ancient in soul – and she felt intimate. Close. Personal.

As if the smell of the place – the whiskey and musk and faint cinnamon and pine of cologne sprayed that morning – was like pressing her lips to his skin.

Lights had come on, an awkward way to begin conversation.

"It's not how I imagined,"

Lies. She'd seen it in his face, his stance – this felt too much like him.

 _Remember why you're here._

He'd shrugged amicably, a boy shying away from the confession he'd made. She'd turned to look at him, hair tucked behind one ear.

His face fell.

His lips parted, his chest visibly tensing as she'd panicked, turning her face away.

 _No, no, no –_

"Where is he?"

 _No, stop it, Morse –_

She'd tried to breathe – took one, gasping, quiet breath in the musty air of his apartment, dim light failing to show her his true expression. But he looked – angry. Struck.

As if beaten down and realizing that having left her that day, he'd opened that door again for this to happen.

The sting of pain around her eye reminded her that, if anything, Morse couldn't have done anything. Time came and went like everything – the punch was hours ago. The damage – hard to say.

Her stubbornness? A lifetime of pain worth remembering and preparing for.

"Where is he?" Definitely anger. Panicked himself, as he'd held out a hand, tense line of his mouth at odds with the sheer horror in his eyes, the bright blue of them dulled to pale violet in the light of his flat, hair turned auburn by the red of the wallpaper's glow as the lamplight cast the room in its shade.

He'd looked fierce, presumptuous, unsettled, irritable.

And –

 _He's in –_

She couldn't say it _._

Couldn't accept it. Not now. Not like this.

"No, it wasn't his fault, Morse – please -"

"Don't say that -" That chastising tone again –

"No, Morse, please – it was me, I provoked him,"

Just from the look on his face, she'd known it was bollocks. Utter bollocks, and he'd known too. No matter what she'd done, what anyone had done, Ray had had it in him – to be cruel with words and make the hit count for something in his book, as another way to reign control in a relationship that had never been one of equals. The bruises are her skin had stung in kind, a reminder of what her skull had went through. The throbbing pain had only numbed slightly, her headache more a persistent whine in the side of her temple, but her vision had been sore all day, the pain too spiked to allow her to move it properly.

He'd done something to it, anyway.

She'd cursed his family and his rotting skeleton to hell, watching as Morse's breath had passed into the air around them with a barely perceptible twitch, completely struck by her words, expression hurt and wrecked at the very sight of her.

 _I shouldn't have come._

"He's given me, um – a couple of weeks… to get out of the flat,"

Lies again. She'd run for her life, because she'd been near sure those drunken slurs from behind her had been the promise of more head wounds that wouldn't heal if she'd stayed any longer. She'd go back, she knew. To do what, she didn't.

Just something that didn't involve taking snivelling apologies and a bouquet of flowers every time he fucked up.

The flowers had kept dying anyway. Choked on petrol from the station. Not _really_ a gift.

Just a good excuse.

'Love.'

How _cheap_.

Morse had looked unimpressed; shaken, even. Like all his care and attention to detail had still served to wipe the floor with him, because he'd _missed_ this. He'd missed her – missed what had been going on with her.

Or maybe – maybe she'd chosen to let him think that.

Too late, really, to have tried to understand it.

Morse had sighed, looking too tired to be having the conversation that had currently been taking place. It was all too much – all of it. Watching him stand in front of her, defeated in her presence, unsure how to be with her anymore. Maybe they'd lost that knack ages ago – maybe when she'd left him on the pavement, alone and forgotten by all in the bright, cool and lonely morning, hearing a train in the distance. Maybe that's all it had taken for them to unravel the string tied around their fingers, keeping them tied to each other.

Maybe all that had been holding them together was the fact that they'd never moved outside of each other.

"You should go home,"

He'd just sounded like her Dad when he'd said that. The company had clearly been wearing off on him.

"I can't,"

"Of _course_ you can!"

Defiant, defiant, defiant. _Stubborn_ –

"I _can't_ ,"

Oh, they were just _perfect_ for each other. Both as stubborn as the other, too easily refusing each other's glares to be able to see past them. Too much in love with the other and too proud to say it. She'd seen it in his eyes that night – that insistence that nothing could ever hurt her if she'd let others take her place; let him take her place.

She'd wanted him so badly, but she'd never wanted his protection. That was a suffocation in love; something not really worth the title if you made the rules based on that.

"I've made such a mess. - … I don't know what to do,"

He'd looked at her, helpless. She'd briefly wondered how often people had seen this side to him – something bereft from the Detective Constable people had come to love, and yet be alluded by. He'd been a mystery on her doorstep, once; he'd become the pages of a book on the floor, scattered at her feet with every emotion laid bare to her that she could even hope to decipher, the minute she'd walked in his door.

They were strangers to each other in touch alone. Nothing more.

Then it had chimed into the silence.

"Marry me."

Easy words for a man who'd never known what it might sound like with an audience.

Easy words for someone who'd already accepted that he'd fallen in love with her.

Joan had looked at him. _Properly_. Like seeing –

Seeing his soul. Or something just as hidden. Like a secret jewellery compartment in a box you thought you knew.

Or realizing there was a second layer to the chocolate collection. That joy at finding more layers.

Maybe it hadn't been the case, but the words had seemed to pain him. Like he'd been in disbelief and resounding shock at the request, despite it falling from his own lips and no one else's. Second hand embarrassment for her – realizing how forward he'd just been.

"-Morse -" His name hadn't felt enough. She'd known darn well that he'd been keeping that hidden since God knew when. She'd asked her Dad – tried to desperately garner some sense of what he was called under the surface. What kind of name should be whispered in the night before he fell asleep. What his mother had called him as she'd held him in her arms, rocking him a little as she'd stroked his cheek and seen his first breaths of life.

 _What was he called?_

It had made her see him in a different light. Made her imagine what he'd been like as a baby, trying to walk for the first time; how he'd cried when he'd scraped his knee for the first time; what his first book had been; how he'd fallen when the school boys had tripped him up; if he'd been bullied, or slapped, and who'd done it to him first; what his first kiss had been like; who he'd fallen head over heels for and spilled his books in the presence of.

Who he was had become too desperately real that she'd stared at him and carelessly wondered how much he'd realize he'd offered to her.

And how much she'd been wanting to take it, and run with it forever.

And how much she knew – that she couldn't take it.

Not even a little bit.

" – I don't want your pity,"

Oh _God_ , the look on his face –

His head had bowed instantly, every emotion sweeping away with one sentence, lips pressed together a little as he'd blinked once.

 _So._

He'd shuffled his feet once, sniffing to himself.

 _He means it, then._

"And never mind what Dad would say!"

He had glanced to her, but not quite. Like seeing a ghost in the corner of your eye. A decision to wilfully ignore.

And then he'd turned away, hands braced on his hips, looking to his ceiling and window in silence, releasing a breath that had sounded as tense as her own heart, thumping badly in staccato rhythm that had made her feel seized and trapped and stuck.

The silence had played on. Their breaths had mingled, but not as she'd wanted.

The must had flew to her sinuses again, making her nose tickle. He had merely looked to the floor, his face in shadow.

Once again, lost to her.

"I've been offered a job in London– at the Met."

He had been murmuring.

"I've got to meet a Detective Inspector – over there on Monday, but it's – just a formality."

He'd looked to her, nodded once, like all was right with the world.

He'd known darn well is was everything but.

 _London_. It had sounded like a sight far from something her eyes would ever see. And he'd looked pained to admit it – fumbling with brick-a-brack as he'd spoke, far too aware that the atmosphere was choked with confessions already as it was.

"How did Dad take it?"

A pause.

"I'll drop him a line – or something," He hadn't sounded sure.

She'd stood in his room, once again a victim to silence. Their entire relationship had waned to this – stagnant pauses and unsaid words and a mixup of haphazard arguments and confessions. Nothing like what it should have been. Joan had dreamt up her relationship with him so many times – all shy smiles and coy looks until one day he'd have had the nerve to ask her to lunch the next day, and pick her up after work, and it would all be smashing, the whole thing – all just like her Dad would want.

As _she_ would want it, more importantly.

But instead, she'd ended up with this – standing in his house at eleven o'clock at night without a clue what to do, carrying something she'd never thought to consider and standing in front of a man who'd as well have been her true love, for all the good it did her.

"Well, if – if you're not going home, then -" He'd fumbled for money, pulling it out of a metal tin on the table without so much as a thought to accompany it, keeping his hands busy despite the very obvious trembling she'd seen instantly.

It had looked far too much, and she'd been right.

"Just, um – take this,"

Joan had sighed in exasperation.

"I can't take all that, don't be stupid,"

He'd frowned at her, biting the inside of his cheek.

Joan had frowned back.

"I'm serious, I can't take that!"

"I won't need it. Please, just take it,"

His tone had plead with her.

Her half hearted smile had done little to exonerate the gravity of what had happened here. The money crumpled in her fingers as she flipped through it a little.

"It's too much, Morse,"

His non-committal wave was enough to tell her: _on the contrary_.

"Gosh, you're ridiculous."

He'd merely smiled at her thinly, but widely, close-lipped and as a supposed balm to her pain; like how he'd smiled at her every time he'd seen her before now.

"You'll get it back,"

That had been a promise she knew she'd keep.

He'd shook his head at that too.

It had been at that moment that the phone had rung, a call to the real world again, no matter their privacy then. He'd glanced round, at once resembling every Renaissance painting she'd cared to remember from secondary school history, as the scholar looking over his shoulder for the call to his work again. The dim light of the lamp caught his face again, casting it in planes of red-gold and black, carving hollows into his cheeks and setting his eyes alight, despite the dimness. His hair was curlier, she'd noticed.

She'd noticed so much about him.

"You should probably get that." He'd looked at her straight. "Could be work."

He'd shrugged, lovelorn and heartbroken.

"Wouldn't be anything else," His accompanying smile had told her all she needed to know.

 _It never_ will _be anything else unless you're here._

She'd reached for the phone, bringing it to him with barely a whisper, holding it to his cheek with a raised eyebrow.

 _For me?_ Her eyes had said to him.

He'd taken the phone in hand.

"Morse?"

He'd watched her closely - poised in amongst the room and wreckage between them, and he'd watched with fervent, fluttered heartbeats as she'd pressed her fingers to her lips.

Joan had thought perhaps she'd have kissed him differently than she'd done then – perhaps a more permanent goodbye. As things stood, it had been a strange one. The feel of his mouth, against her hand, had felt – like a promise. Like a call to him, just without the words.

Like saying goodbye,

 _But not for long._

She'd felt the slightest push against them – his lips kissing her fingers as she'd watched his eyes brush over her, but she'd pulled away too soon, hearing his croaked voice behind her.

"Can you just wait a minute?"

She'd turned round.

"Where are you going?"

"Um,"

She hadn't known. She'd hadn't a bloody clue.

His expression had fallen, eyebrows drooping as he dared ask her the next question.

"To get my things," She'd pointed vaguely.

Morse had stared at her, something breaking in his expression that she'd thought had been lost that day by the platform, in the cold and the quiet. History kept repeating itself and she hated it for it.

Hated it for making everything so painful, all the time.

"You're not going back to him," It had sounded like a cry for help on his side of the line – telephone and all.

 _Please don't go. Not again. Not this time. Not like this._

His lips had parted, trying to form more of the words. He'd seemed lost – the phone on his shoulder a reminder he hadn't long.

She'd shrugged.

"Maybe,"

He'd hate that answer, but it had been too late to say anything else.

A pause. A second of silence. Just to keep it a little longer. Just to look at him – just to see him one last time.

"The Met?"

His nod had been solemn – a quick dip of the head, in more than just approval. A final bow to the girl he'd let slip through his fingers.

She'd glanced over him again.

Lord – he was _beautiful_ in this light.

"Save the world for me,"

Morse had watched her go, the moonlight casting her skin to starlight as she'd climbed the railings again, slow and steady and out of his view.

Save the world?

For her?

As if he'd been doing it for anyone else at this point.

* * *

I was originally going to finish this as series four finished, but we were hitting 8K on word count so I had to cut it there *laughs*

I actually loved writing this, and the addition of my own snippets of dialogue continues. Hopefully the extra scene was well written enough - I thought perhaps glances into other characters and scenes would provide some intrigue. Correct me if that was a mistake!

Thank you all for being so patient - I appreciate it to the moon and back.

Good God, that ENDING folks.

I will not be well until the next series.

Stay tuned.


	6. Chapter 6 - Destination

Quick to churn this one out, since I finished the last chapter yesterday, and was suitably annoyed that I had to figure out how to channel this through to the next one. Apologies if you were expecting something else *laughs*

Once again, a warning for domestic violence here. So just skip past that once again if it's a no-go area for you - don't sweat it whatsoever. I actually thought about it for a bit, and it struck me that we never really got a proper answer to how exactly Joan 'fell'. I was having a toss-up between my two theories on the thing; one being that she'd been thrown down, and the other that she'd thrown herself down, for grim reasons. In the end, I went with the former, and referenced Being Human were Annie realizes *SPOILER ALERT* that her boyfriend killed her. It's a great show - anybody interested, I highly recommend.

Some particulars in the song department: Never Really Cared by Banfi, Holland by Novo Amor, and She Comes Home by Banfi.

As things go, this fic has become way longer than first anticipated! But it's been a whirl writing it so far, so I can't wait to continue it. These two are everything.

There also an excellent interview with the cast concerning their relationship, which I'm watching on repeat all the time at the minute, because it really gets into the main drama of the whole thing, so give that a watch if you can spare five minutes: watch?v=ATUkjiYiX30

As a last:

*shouts* RUSSELL LEWIS YOU BETTER NOT HAVE LEFT THAT CLIFFHANGER JUST SO YOU CAN GO AND RUIN IT AGAIN!

Thanks again for all the continued support.

* * *

Joan had made her way home, not entirely sure how she ought to have felt about that encounter. It had been all too much like a goodbye, leaving him to his heart, and trying to make do with the tatters he'd been left with.

It had left a hole in her own chest, empty and void of the usual warmth the remnants of his presence had usually left her with in times gone by.

The trip back to the flat – officially nothing more to do with her – had been laborious.

Maybe because she'd known what would have been waiting for her if she'd lingered any longer, both in the place and the memory of his fist smashing into her face.

The bus journey had been long – a decision to take something other than the train, despite Morse's generous (too generous) offer of money. She could've gone to an entirely new city if she'd wanted.

Something had kept her tied to Oxford, and she'd had a feeling, even then, that it was really just one thing pulling her back.

The rain had come on half way through the journey, spilling down the windows as the passing lights of the city had flickered across her vision – red and greens of traffic lights, bright blues of the neon signs, flecked orange and gold of streetlamps. They had all been there, turning into billions of stars in front of her eyes, the slow hum of the bus engine filling her ears as a newspaper's flick had stirred her from her daze, tracing the patterns on the pane.

She'd been feeling the sting again, more like a weight on her eye socket as her forehead had pressed against the window, glass cold on her skin.

She'd missed him already.

The time had dragged on, passing through different stops as people had dismounted, leaving her with less and less company, until the bus had been empty.

The journey had run on.

Finally getting off at the station, the short walk back to Leamington had provided her with fresh air and a precious fifteen minutes to plan how best to get her things without engaging in anything past a swift goodbye.

Two suitcases back to the train.

That money had been draining fast, making her cringe as she'd stopped beside the phone box again, unable to stomach how she'd been here not a day ago.

And freshly beaten.

One breath and she'd made her feet walk towards the flat, ascending steps one at a time, no longer a race to make it to the door just so she could see him.

She'd shrugged when Morse had asked her, quietly – painfully – if she'd planned on returning to him. She'd wondered why she'd never told him she would never look at any but him, ever again - even if he never looked for her again.

Some faint music had been drifting from another flat – loud enough to be heard through the flimsy doors. Some classical piece, something exactly like that which Morse would have stopped to listen to. No words, just violins.

Just – music.

She'd used it as a marching tune, finally reaching her destination as her heels had clicked on the floor, that curious plotted plant having still been that strange addition to the floor.

The door's lock had sounded too loud for her liking, like it was too much of a signal to whoever lingered inside, that would've just made her run in fear again.

Even gathering her things had sounded like too much like a deal with death – one foot outside of the necessities, and she'd fall back into the pit which she'd been cast, and was only a step away from escaping. Like being clawed back by Fate, too easily brought down upon her again.

It was only as she'd just been about to go downstairs, suitcase in hand, that she'd felt the footsteps through the carpet, turning around in time to see Ray striding towards her, the reek of alcohol on his breath, wilted flowers in one hand and something else in his fist, glasses grubby with something she hadn't wanted to consider.

"What's this, then? Crawling back? Is _that_ what you told _him_?"

Joan's heart had leapt into her mouth, stomach falling out from under her as she'd felt the acidic promise of bile in her throat.

Ray had grabbed her arm, shoving her against the wall, breath sour as she'd turned her head the other way, watching the flowers get thrown to the floor, dropping in despair for her.

"What did you say to him?!"

"Say to who? Who are you talking about?"

"Where'd you get it, hmm? You going to him, then?! That piece of _filth_ who came here before?"

Joan's eyes had widened, hands flat against the wall behind her, ready to push back the moment she'd kick him where it was bound to hurt.

"My Dad?! What are you on about?!"

Ray's snarl had snapped her resolve in two, as he'd flung up his fist, waving it in her face as she'd tried to breathe past him.

The money.

 _Her coat_ –

She'd left it in her room.

"You piece of _shit_ ,"

He'd spat in her face.

So she'd pushed him back, with a lot more strength than she'd ever imagined she'd had, the pounding of her head making her vision swim as she'd watched him stagger a little, trampling on the flowers as he'd went. The stems had broken as his foot had trod on them, petals sagging with the weight.

 _Petrol station flowers_. Not even worth the effort.

But he'd been up in an instant, kicking her suitcase aside as he'd grabbed her hair, throwing her up against the other wall, banging her head again.

"That copper from before! Did he give it to you?! That _bastard_ gave you money?! You having it on with him?!"

"No, don't be so stupid!"

"You doing him behind my back?! You _bitch_!"

He'd slammed her head again, making her gasp in pain. There'd definitely been more than a cut by this point. At least internal damage.

God, she'd not had time to _think_ –

Joan had ducked again, running for the stairs, but he'd caught up with her, grabbing the her by the scruff of the neck of her dress again, the money having fluttered to the floor as he'd let it tumble from his hands. The flat had become deadly silent, not even the whisper of a clock as she'd looked up at him, the sheer panic of what he'd been about to do colliding in her throat.

She hadn't been able to breathe.

"Best be on your way, love. Wouldn't want to miss him, now – _would you_?"

The reek of alcohol had made her want to puke –

Until he'd thrown her backwards, back into the wall, right to where the stairs were.

She'd had moments to choose to shield her head as she'd fallen down, legs tangling up as she'd plummeted to the bottom, only just glimpsing her abandoned suitcase as she'd somersaulted again, landing on her back with a _thwack_ that had made her gorge rise, resounding in her ears as she'd felt the pain shoot up her spine, tear down through her legs, plummet into the centre of her abdomen.

The ceiling was swimming, the pastels of the flower wallpaper dancing across her eyes as she'd heard the vague mutterings of Ray in the background, and then – rushed footsteps –

And then -

Silence.

Blackness had swelled in the corners of her eyes, sending her into the numbness and loss of sensation, and she'd lost consciousness.

She'd woken to the sounds of someone's voice, something distant that she hadn't been able to remember. Like hearing the TV playing from another room, not so sure of what was on.

"Joan?"

She'd blinked once, remembering her headache. Remembering –

The face above her looked distinct, a faint mop of blondish hair –

 _Morse_.

"Joan?!"

No, something hadn't been right about that.

He never called her Joan.

Not once, not even for a laugh. Morse had never called her by any given name, even under insistence.

Her vision had finally cleared, allowing her to see her neighbour – Booth, was it? – hunching over her, touching her cheek lightly.

She'd tasted blood.

"Joan, an ambulance – it's – it's on its way." He'd glanced to the side, as if for thought, sweat breaking on his brow. Joan had gotten the faint sensation of her limbs hanging all around her, like a marionette with the strings cut loose, dangling on one left, the scissors coming in to cease the performance.

"Is there – is there anyone you want to call? I can't – I don't -"

Something glistened in her memory.

 _If you need money – or a voice on the phone… you know where to find me._

Joan had tried to talk around the blood pooled in her mouth, sensing something slip down her cheek at the mere thought of him. Of her Mum, her Dad – anybody.

"Call -" Her voice had gurgled, as she'd turned with a grimace on her side, spitting up the dark blood onto the carpet - one she'd tried so desperately to avoid staning. The sirens had been wailing in the distance. She'd needed to tell him – desperately so –

 _Miss Thursday?_

She'd needed to tell Morse everything - and it'd been too late.

"Call – Morse," she'd gasped, wiping her mouth with a limp hand, her head aching with the impact. Ray had done something – where _was_ he?

Mr Booth had frowned at her, patting her head lightly, clearly out of his depth as she'd heard someone come in – or maybe –

"The – policeman," She'd choked, Booth's face lightning a little as he'd come to realize her meaning.

"Call him – Morse. Call him – _please_ -" Her vision had been going again, a dull ache in her limbs and abdomen, like a weight left on her and refusing to be moved.

She'd felt his touch on her face as her head had begun to disillusion her again, watching his face dance in front of her with that small, gentle smile he always wore.

The footsteps rushing into the house had been an end to the conversation, her eyes giving her false hope, just as blackness had swarmed her vision again.

After everything –

After everything, Morse –

 _She needed him._

The daylight had seeped into the room, save for the curtains, limp in their hanging as Morse had stared at his meagre windows, flat beams crawling across his bedclothes as he'd sat watching the sunrise through bleary vision.

Quiet. Watchful.

And an end to things.

He'd lain there for an age, watching his rooms emerge from darkness, wiped clean of many his personal possessions, haunting in its stark reality as the thundering engine of a car had run down the road, puncturing the silence with barely a consideration for his head.

 _Too much to drink - again._

When he'd finally dragged himself from the sheets, he'd went through the motions, his morning routine a distant memory in the waking hours, mechanical as the room had faded into early morning gold, bathed by brightness and dimness in simultaneous beauty. Like a fading photograph, beautiful yet.

He'd eventually sat down on his bed, a pressed white shirt on his lithe shoulders as he'd done up the cuff, blindly staring into his flat with little on his mind – just the blank emptiness of a choice coming to rest in his peripheral. It was playing out now – nothing left to keep him here.

He'd sighed momentarily, gripping the edge of the mattress as he'd surveyed the wreckage – from nights ago and nights before that. Jacket draped over the bed –end. Telephone left haphazardly in the middle of the floor, the last fingerprints of her touch on the handset, sitting like a decent, predictable thing on the carpet. Awaiting its next message.

Bare walls. Everywhere. It had been a bare existence.

And then the phone had rang.

He'd answered, of course – telephones had become his life; a lifeline more than the saying often predicted.

"Morse?" he'd said into the handset, letting the cord twist around his torso as he'd dipped his head in anticipation.

A pause, then.

"Mr – Morse? This is – Mr Booth. I don't know how to – it's - it's Miss Thursday."

Morse had suddenly felt the weight of the phone in his hand, dangling from one grip as the receiver was held to his ear. His heart had thumped momentarily, a slow, deliberate rhythm as he'd waited.

"She's – she's had a fall. A bad one. The ambulance have taken her away – but – but she said to call you, I don't -"

Morse had stood perfectly still, feeling the blood drain from his fingertips as the circulation was cut, feeling his chest grow cold, the room perfectly still with him, watching him from every corner as he'd grappled to catch up with the voice down the line.

"What hospital?" He'd snapped, he supposed – and cruelly, too. No time to talk.

One minute later, and he'd grabbed his jacket, sprinting out the door and into the blinding sunlight, the morning barely awake as he'd begun to run down the pavement, barely perceiving his movements.

The hospital.

What on _earth_ –

When he'd finally made it, a little out of breath, the place had seemed foreign. Clinical, as he'd expected, but busy. People sitting it chairs, signs a little bewildering as he'd walked down each corridor, white coats standing out against the unassuming and bleak, duck egg blue walls, linoleum floor squeaking with the well-kept cleanliness. Hospitals made him queasy, not least because he'd always had the association of balance here that never alluded to anything good. A place of recovery, yes – but also one of desperate order when considering that death was a permanent inmate.

He'd squinted at the signs, searching for the ward number, as he'd felt his breathing slow, every breath a painful reminder of what he might see when he found her. How he found her.

He'd tried to imagine, of course – on the way there. What exactly had caused such a fall –

He'd already partly guessed, but wasn't prepared to accept anything yet.

Something smelled of bleach as he'd passed the next ward, only to come to a stop at the last one, the concertina blinds allowing enough a view of the girl huddled up in the bed, dark hair a Sleeping Beauty fan around her head, skin a pale sallow and hand on top of the sheets, completely still. Too still.

Morse had felt something in his throat stick.

"It was a bad fall,"

The man beside him – clearly a doctor – had looked at him with some sort of indescribable pity, like he couldn't imagine what he was thinking but was, alas, glad not to have to think of it as well.

"Will she be alright?" Monotone. He'd just about managed to get it out, but it had sounded firm to his ears. The voice of a Concerned Individual, but otherwise impersonal.

The doctor seemed to have sensed his breeding panic, as his gaze had remained completely focused on her and her alone. Not even a blink in any other direction.

"We've given her something to help her sleep, that's all,"

The doctor had extended a hand, offering him the door, sighing a little with him.

"Just one of those things, I'm afraid. Mother Nature."

 _Like that excuses anything,_ Morse snorted to himself.

"Still: she's young, and fit – give it another month or two and I'm sure you'll be able to try again."

Morse ha paused, blinking once to himself as he'd turned to the doctor, only barely deciphering the casual, slow breathing of Joan in the bed beside him.

Try again? What -?

 _Oh._

The doctor had smiled.

"Better luck next time, hmm?"

He'd left.

Something had felt painfully wrong in that moment – like a cord cut between them, leaving him stranded in the harsh and unforgiving light of day, whilst Joan was lost to the darkness of induced sleep, alone but unaware of it. The lilac of the walls was soothing, the quiet chatter of other patients and visitors filling the empty space around him. But not one person near Joan.

Not even her parents.

Just him.

He'd looked down at her face, the peace of it. The bruise around her socket was blotched, but fading – a mark upon her once bright eyes, her face lost and alien without her bright smile.

She'd looked sick – and not just from whatever had been done to her. Like someone just dead, if only for the fact that he could see the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest.

Morse had loosed a breath, staring at the floor.

 _How_ had this happened?

How had the girl on the doorstep ended up here?

 _Why_ –

He'd breathed again, dispelling the thought. Memories did no good when the present was giving him this: her limp form in a hospital gown, making her paler by the moment, and the silence of her presence, not a word to be said for the horror she'd faced.

A baby, even. That much was clear.

She'd lost it.

Something about that had made him want to crumple up altogether, because that was just unfair.

He'd looked at her again – pale as she was, her face blank without her bright lipstick and winged eyeliner and acute stare at him as he'd often bumbled about in front of her – and stepped forward, pressing his lips to her forehead, a hand cupping the back of her head as he'd closed his eyes, willing that his tears wouldn't fall onto her face.

Joan had felt it, of course. She'd vaguely recounted it to herself when she'd woken up.

How she'd smelled the quiet brush of his cologne against her nose – musk and pine again, as always – his lips warm against her skin as he'd brushed back her hair. She'd been aware of his eyes on her, even with the vaguely present fogginess of drugged sleep in her head. His breath on her cheek, his hair tickling her forehead a little. He'd smelled like home, and felt like it, too. A kiss too eaagerly and longingly waited for, and it was so tender she'd almost cried at the memory of it, seared into her mind like it had been branded there.

But she'd felt it – felt _him_.

So he had come, after all.

The faint swish of the door told her he'd left, but she didn't mind so much.

The darkness enveloped her once more, beckoning her back to the dreams she'd had – of Morse holding her hand, his warmth by her side.

* * *

As a side note, I'm not entirely up on the exact effects of falling down the stairs and the effect it might have on a pregnancy, so I tried my best with the research I did. If anything's glaringly wrong, don't hesitate to notify me! Also, I hated writing that bit between Joan and Ray - but I felt it was a good addition story wise to get some background info.

Just as a side note - if you are suffering from such things, don't hesitate to reach out to the authorities, or someone you trust. It's so, so important that you keep yourself safe. Look after yourselves, folks.

Reviews, kudos - you know the drill. You're all amazing. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

More to come in due time.


	7. Chapter 7 - Distinction

Back again, and with a new chapter! Kind of long again, but more and more original scenes are filtering in. Whilst I'm still on the road of reciting scenes from the show (with the dialogue and all), I am finding my feet with these characters and their patterns of dialect and choice of words and whatnot. So hopefully those original scenes feel authentic.

I was thinking to myself a lot lately about where I wanted to go with this story - and the idea of Joan being a woman independent of Morse felt super important. She's a girl in the sixties! She wants more than a boyfriend - all women do. So, with that in mind, I decided to go for a more feminist outlook from here on in. Hopefully that gels well with everyone!

There's also been a tense change, since series 5 was this year and the pluperfect tense was proving a gripe to stay within the bounds of. Oh, and as well! If you haven't seen Series 5, this is a PSA to tell you: please don't read ahead! Spoilers will turn up, intentionally or otherwise. So be wary, folks.

As for song recs, I ended up listening to a lot of modern stuff. Modern, head-banging stuff. So please take a good look at Charlie Puth - Attention, Slow it Down - and Jess Glynne - literally all of 'I Cry When I Laugh' - so have fun times with them in the playlist. Thanks to anyone who's following! Hopefully you're liking my choices.

As always, folks, please red and review! It's well appreciated.

* * *

Joan perhaps thinks that this might be what she's been looking for the entire time.

Looking up at the flat, the morning sunshine casting it in a hue of gold, the bright red door like something she'd have been pernickety about when she was younger, it feels like home already. It's the glow of independence, she knows; the sense that this is just her. It's all she's ever wanted – to have something that she can claim for herself without ever having to consider what a man might have to say about it. She's no hardcore feminist (not yet, anyway – a few friends are on a mission to change it, and she's not entirely fighting them) but it sends her mind into a frenzy.

Freedom.

She likes the taste of it.

It's a quaint thing, she thinks, shoving her hands into the pockets of her well-worn turquoise coat – a reminder of many a mistake she's made in a short life so far. She's seen him in it, of course – turning up unannounced like a bad penny after a foul mishap. But for now, Morse is nothing but a face drifting in her memory.

This is about her. About how she's trying to move on from her own mistakes.

The ache never truly leaves her stomach – out of fear, out of guilt, she doesn't know. She's not sad about the miscarriage, per say. More just about how it ended. Having a baby had never been the plan, but she'd have taken it. Even if had meant her father would never look her in the eye again. Even if her mum would glance at her like she expected her to collapse and treat her like a girl yet despite the quite literal pram in the hallway. It's a reminder that things could be different. She'd be Joan Thursday – just not under her terms.

She's done with romance.

She wants herself for now.

A car drives by in the idle April sunshine as she thinks, glancing at the pavement, still drying after a night of rain, and the wide, Victorian windows of what she hopes will be her new home. The railing is spiked like arrow heads – sharp to touch, she thinks. The door is oblong, paint fresh and vivid and new – what she wants in life now. It's neat, in a row, with no sense that it's a street home to homewreckers. At least, that's what she's been told.

From experience, she's learned neither her gut nor hearsay can ever be truly right all the time.

One more glance allows her to breathe out, a smile gracing her lips, feet comfortable in well-loved heels and the satchel handbag – dark brown leather and buckle straps from another era - a comfortable weight in her hand.

She turns away, listening to the purring engines in the distance, and glancing at the cloud-dusted sky, the spring breathing to life in this quaint and quiet part of Oxford.

 _Home_ , she thinks.

It's a nice change.

She's a different person, she knows. She has been since leaving Leamington.

She's wanted far more than she ever has done, and it could be to do with the fact that Morse is out of the picture.

Ever since the hospital – whenever she cares to remember when that was – she's given up waiting out for him. Because, stupid and lovable and oblivious and genius as he is, he has told her once and that's enough. She won't push it. She never will. Whatever was straining between them when she was still the girl who greeted him on the doorstep, it's gone. She cannot spend her entire life pining after a man that cannot – and will not – ever admit to ever having loved her.

No matter the emotion. No matter the tears and no matter the past.

She's done with pining for him.

She'll just love him in private, where he'll never know, and where it will never hurt anyone.

She feels that best.

This thought strikes her as she makes her way around the flat, small but decent for the rent she's going to have to pay. It's bare skinned for now – waiting for some splash of personality on the walls – but she likes it. It's a fresh canvas away from her childhood bedroom and familiar dinner table. She can be young – the way she never could be when she lived under her parents' roof.

Under her _Dad's_ roof.

She thinks the practicalities of having her own place will also help with that sense of uselessness. It will be running a home with two girls – a sort of balm after too much male companionship – and it's nice. Cool. Easy going. It's all fine.

She finally feels happy.

The first things, of course, come down to how she plans on making this place her own. New paint – a bright yellow, she thinks, because it's the colour of the sun. Brightness. And furniture, despite its small size.

She loves it, she knows. Everything about the whole experience is definitive and planned out.

She needs that after a while.

April lies and bathes in the sun, leaving her to walk to her new job every morning without a concern for rain, in lighter clothes with the busy people of her native city going about their own business like her, but without sparing politeness – the smiles are wide and the trees bloom and fall into arches of waterfalls of bright green leaves, all bowing to the sunshine and basking in it. It's one of those busy mornings that makes her feel important – like a proper individual for a change. Not clutching her mum's hand or chasing after her brother on the trip to the shops. It's just her and the sun and her smart black shoes, her hair freshly washed and make-up amounting to a swish of eyeliner.

Sharp and fresh-faced and content.

That's how she's always wanted it.

Until, of course, he goes and ruins it all.

Hard won independence never lasts long, apparently, not when her dad's a copper. Her trip to the chemist felt wrong this morning, like she should've put it off, but she'd chocked it up to not having eaten anything this morning.

But through the glass of the front door, he's there, at the counter, and she sighs internally, cursing the world for once with language she doesn't regret using. It earns her a sharp look from an elderly couple standing outside beside her, waiting for a bus or something, but she doesn't worry about it. Suddenly the whole shop feels like it's watching her. It's an old fashioned style chemist, with high sweeping ceilings and plenty of stands that could hide her 5"2 figure without cause for concern, if she chooses to go in and slip by him somehow – as always, engaged in work - but she somehow feels like that's just asking to be seen.

May as well face the music.

Opening the door, the tingle of the bell makes her curse again, because really, she'd told herself she was beyond this fussing over him.

But it doesn't help. Not in the slightest.

"Hello, stranger,"

His accompanying look, with lipstick in hand, is enough to make her curse again.

 _Fuck_ , she thinks.

He looks just as beautiful as she remembers.

He rapidly tries to explain exactly _why_ he might be looking at lipstick, but frankly, she doesn't care.

Joan was near sure she'd gotten over this. It's like when she was at school – pine after a boy long enough and you get tired of it. It's like being whacked over the head with a bat – _wise up!_ her mind shouts at her, and she's all the more happy to comply. But the way he's looking at her – like she's a person in a coma and has just told him what he's thinking – is a little _too_ unnerving. As if her presence is a memory of things best left unsaid.

Probably true, she thinks. She hates that it most likely _is_ the case.

Whatever the case, he looks different to her. A shade brighter in all components than she remembers from a good few months ago.

His hair has brightened with the sun, now a sandy blonde that reminds her of the beach – a mile away from the well-worn cobblestones of Oxford. His freckles are brighter, too, making his face seem sharper and more adult than he has ever looked before. Like the last blanket of youth has fallen from his shoulders and she can't ever expect to see the boyish Constable again.

Of course.

 _Detective Sergeant._

He's leagues away from her now, not just miles.

She also thinks he looks like he's been turned into the statue she always thought he resembled; he's no longer David poised in eternal pondering. He _is_ David, cold and resolute and removed from human experience, but merely a symbol of order and beauty in amongst chaos.

Morse is no longer a man she thinks she knows.

"Miss Thursday," he says by way of introduction, as he pockets the lipstick he's paid for, clearly something for work that she wilfully chooses not to ask about. She's heard enough about his work to last her a sodding lifetime.

"Morse," she replies, and her tone is terse, most likely because she can't stomach the burgeoning butterflies that are dancing in her stomach, fruitlessly bringing her infatuation back to the forefront of her mind, during a conversation she promised herself she'd never have again. Maybe it had been a stupid resolution – to decide she'd avoid him for the rest of her life, just to give her mind and heart some well-sought after peace, but it also was a stupid decision, because he practically gets drawn to her side by way of magnetic attraction or something, and not in the good way. The two of them seem to be stuck within permanent reach of each other, always managing to have the knack to bump into the other.

It's annoying and stupid as hell, because his bashful manner and stupidly pretty face are the last things she needs right now. Or ever.

"How – how are you?" he asks, as they take the main pavement, the sun hitting the planes of his face with a shy glow, making his cheekbones more prominent and his nose sharper. It's casting him in shadow and it makes him even more swoon-worthy.

 _Christ, get it together, Joan._

She's gained wit about things over the years, and admitting that he's a more beautiful face than most is not a hard thing, but it reminds her that her infatuation still lingers, even though she's way past having a school-girl crush on him. She's past trying to impress him or make him notice her – she's trying to talk to him, like an equal and an individual, but he refuses to see her as anything other than a 20-something girl who hasn't had sex before.

It makes her want to punch him in his teeth, and she thinks he'd probably accept it, just to avoid annoying her further.

But at the same time – he's a grown man. Young, but getting on. 35 years old, at least. There's at least a gap of 10 years between them, if not a little less, and she realizes that perhaps that makes this whole conversation a whole lot weirder. They're two people entranced with the former versions of themselves, unable to see the realities in front of them. Morse is in love with the girl on the doorstop; she's in love with the Constable.

It makes no sense, and it's making less by the day.

"I'm not too bad, yeah. Certainly glad to be on my feet again," she glances at him, a little frustrated by the pained look he sends her way, tucking his slender hands into his pockets, overcoat fitting his slim shoulders a little better. His suit is dark – the one he wore when he came to her apartment way back when she was living a tip of a life, but a life nonetheless – and a nicely striped tie, the colour scheme matching his natural hues. She thinks if anyone has fit into Oxford more, it's him. He's the living embodiment of the place. Natural and old-fashioned and kind and just a little stuck in his ways.

"How long where you in for?"

"A couple of weeks – maybe two. I'm not sure,"

One week and 4 days. The damage not already done by her miscarriage had been minimum, but the force of the fall had left her head in a queasy way. She'd been told headaches would accompany the vaginal bleeding, so she'd been having a grand time of it. Heavier periods than ever before had never been one of the top things she'd ever wanted to have, and it had taken three weeks for it to finally return to normal.

Even now, the headaches would sometimes pop in for an afternoon chat when she was trying to get on with things.

But Morse didn't need to know any of that.

"Oh," he replies, and she shrugs, turning to look around her as she huffs out breath in annoyance. Such riveting conversation is to be expected, of course. It's never been anything else.

Her suffering seems to have been picked up by a woman in her late fifties, who smiles empathetically towards her.

At least _someone_ gets it.

She doesn't dislike Morse. But she dislikes that they're still running around in the same circles after four years of acquaintance. _Four years_. She practically got down on her knees, day in, day out, pleading with God for the penny to drop.

And then it did, and it was too late, and nothing could be done.

And yet, here they are – the same circles, over and over again.

It's frustrating.

She wants Morse. More than anything. But she also has a life, and Joan can't risk wasting her time, _still_ trying to get him to understand, when she's growing up just as much as him.

"You visited me," His expression freezes, lips parted to try and jump to the defence, but she coolly interrupts him.

"Calm down, I don't mind. I just – I remember you being there."

He smiles briefly, pulling at his earlobe. Habits never die with him.

With a lot of things, actually.

"Thank you." She tells him, and it makes him smile a little more, blinking in the bright sunlight, as they turn into the next street and find themselves surrounded by vibrantly leaved trees, splaying into life around them as they dip and curve around the gardens they've been planted in.

"And what about you? I haven't seen you around," Jealous or grateful for that, Joan doesn't know. She's decided to let him go, and for the most part, that's what happened. The thrill of seeing him is something she'll never get over, because that school-girl part of her is still there, despite how much she's grown, but now it's partnered with frustration and lack of patience for these things anymore. Time and age has made her – young as she still is – less patient with him. She's not prepared to wait around for him. Anytime he feels ready to say something to her, she'll be there. But otherwise, he can absolutely do the best thing and fuck off.

Time has also made her crotchety, but she thinks that's probably a good thing. She's done dealing with other people's shit.

"I've been busy," he replies, taciturn as ever. Just like he painted himself back on one of their early walks back to her house, when he'd only just known her.

"You always are," She mutters, but can't help but smile at his nonchalant shrug. He really does lament having nothing else to say to her. She can see it in his eyes.

It makes her soften towards him.

"Can't help it," he says back, and it feels like a verbal spar that's long overdue. The awkwardness between them lingers on, but there's a flame there, somewhere. It's making it spit and fizz between them, even if they're both trying to ignore it.

The walk continues, and Joan thinks that perhaps this is how it might always end up. Walking like a couple but never being one sounds like a sore excuse just to spend time together as friends, but it's all she needs to consider now. Romance can't – won't – be a part of her life. Not now, anyway.

"So are you back or… are you just visiting?"

Joan's look to him is incredulous, and she thinks he can tell.

"Dad didn't say?"

He shakes his head, not really looking at her.

"I'm back. Couple of weeks now. Surprised you didn't notice,"

"I wouldn't have known,"

"Busy?" she says again, and though it's framed as a question, she knows rightly well it isn't one.

He sighs, smiling a little at the insinuation. It's an excuse on his side.

"Not, but – not home," her afterthought sounds clunky, even to her mind, and the brush of his arm alongside hers as they walk reminds her that she needs to keep her emotions in check.

It's just the thrill of it. It'll pass.

She's too determined about it now to start going back on her word. Especially to herself.

"They must be pleased, all the same, though. Your parents," he dutifully does not include himself – a mistake he already made when she was waiting for the first train out to Leamington. Morse also seems to be done with being emotional over things.

Good. That's going to help, Joan thinks.

She can't help but cringe slightly at how sharp she's being, even internally.

"Think so. Mum, definitely," He nods in agreement.

"I'm sure they both are,"

Ah. There it is. That overarching tone of 'you've-been-missed-by-everyone-don't-be-so-ridiculous' but she's willing to ignore that too.

"It's not the same," she says to him, turning to face each other with a certain amount of trepidation as they are forced to look at each other – to see what the other's become whilst their concerns lay elsewhere. He's taller than she remembers – but that could just be time making her forget what it felt like to have him by her side a lot more often. Six months and she's been without him, and been fine. It feels weird – unoriginal, even – to stand here and pretend like she still knows him. She doesn't. He's changed, with or without her around to notice, and they've become different people, with different priorities. They were never each other's. Only when they stood in the same room, anyway, but where's the change there? Everybody knows that love makes you blind to everyone and everything else.

"No, no – I imagine not,"

Even as she looks away, Morse's eyes follow her, wind ruffling his hair a little. If she had an excuse, she'd leave now, but she can't help but feel like this conversation has missed on something important. It's all too casual, all of it – and it's –

It's making her wish she'd never seen him at all.

"Mr Booth – my neighbour, in Leamington – he said he called you,"

Is that it? Is that really what she meant to say to him?

"Yes," he looks to the ground.

"A fall, the hospital said?" He looks to her again, eyes and tone questioning everything about that. He knows. He knew from the offset. Probably knew before it happened.

She nods, quickly and neatly.

"I slipped,"

His face breaks into the smallest of smiles – a confirmation, then, that he knows she's not even telling him half the truth, but she doesn't care. It's for sake of saving face, and nothing more.

The conversation swiftly moves on.

"So, your Sergeant's! I meant to ask last time, but I just -"

"Oh, yes – it came through. In the end," a wry smile makes her beam at him, because here is a Morse content to tell her his work has its own shit to deal with. She likes that things end up wrong everywhere. Makes her own troubles seem less unbearable.

"Congratulations." She smiles and laughs, like old times. It seems funny to consider, but old her would have given anything to walk this path with him.

Maybe that's why it happens.

"Detective Sergeant Morse."

He smirks.

"Hell of an opening line, huh?"

He sighs, a style of laughter very acute to his way of doing things, and she just snorts again, brushing away a stray curl from her face.

"Things change,"

"Yes," it's a lamentable response, and a truthful one too. He hates it – she can hear it in his reply, how he loathes that things are different. Not just with Oxford, or with the times, but between them too. Between him and the Thursdays. Between people and places and society and life and death. He's such a pessimist, and enough of one to admit that he _is_ one, too.

They reach the end of the path, and she knows this is it. How long until she sees him again? Probably too long to bother even trying to count it, but it breaks her, just a little bit.

Distance changes nothing.

Even if she moves to another country, and makes herself into someone she's proud of – with a career, and a future, and a name that's said with reverence and awe, she'll still feel about him like she has done for years.

And she'll hate him, too, for never allowing her to be let free.

"Yes, well – this way,"

He looks sad at the inevitable departure. But she wastes no time in stepping past him, content to leave it as a pleasant, goodbye, see you later –

"Are you alright?"

She glances back, watching his face morph into one of tentative curiosity. This is not in reference to her new job, or where she's living. This is deeper than that. Far more personal – personal enough in that it exists between the two of them, and solely so.

"I mean – _really_ , alright."

She bites her lip, glancing back out at the day in front of her.

No. In some ways. Yes. In others. It depends what he means.

Is she alright after having been pushed down the stairs and having a miscarriage and bleeding out everywhere for 3 weeks?

Is she alright after her Dad came in and destroyed any chance she might have had of maybe realizing for herself that Ray was an arsehole and needed a good kicking, and she could have done it herself?

Is she _alright_ – after all the times he's let her think he was interested, only to keep stepping back the minute it gets too real for him?

Let her count the ways – she's got all morning.

"Something happens,"

She's going to let that marinate for him, so he gets her meaning. His broken look makes her weep for him, but she also has a job to do, and that means making it clear.

"You have to look a bad thing in the eye,"

He looks at her, a little perplexed and perhaps a little in awe of her. And then he smiles, and she knows he's got it. He gets it, and he gets her.

"I'll see you around."

His expression is whimsical and light-hearted and boyish, as he shrugs, lazy with hiding the infatuation in his gaze.

"It's a small town,"

She turns round at the last moment, looking at him with that smirk that she knows makes him feel caught out.

"Well, at least I know where you buy your lipstick now,"

His laughter makes her heart sing a little, but she shoves it down, tucking her hair behind her ear as she walks her way down the main street.

She can't fall back in love with him.

Not yet.

And probably not ever.

The flat comes to life once she starts painting.

Yellow it is, and the walls start to shine with independence and feminine freedom the minute she dons her overalls and makes a point of dancing to the radio as she takes the professional approach and does it herself.

Nancy and Kate are both brilliant – one, as hectic and weird as Alice from her adventures in Wonderland, wanting everything done yesterday and with a penchant for cleaning things left, right and centre with even the tiniest bits of dirt, but she's house proud and refuses to live in a tip. That's a good thing. The other, as problematic as a flower – in other words, chilled out and only concerned with immediate problems, with a love of cooking and an easy acceptance of mistakes.

They're all doing rooms separately – but the music is loud enough to be enjoyed and quiet enough not to disturb, and it keeps the momentum as the place is drawn into their youthful lives.

Then the furniture – bare essentials and some help with choice through Win's expert eye, and it makes for an entertaining ride as these flatmates become people that are interesting to her in things that involve not a word to do with the other sex. They're young women, they're feminists, they're into parties and studying and drinking coffee at ridiculous times, and eating without a care, and dancing in their underwear, and picking fights over petty things and giving less than a shit about their weight and teaching the others how to do proper winged eyeliner. It's a miracle that female friendship is a real thing, because Joan thinks she wouldn't survive otherwise.

It's the Friday night that they're all sitting on the sofa, watching the evening light come in through the blinds as the television chatters in the background, down low but with some programme on that none of the three of them recognize. It's a common occurrence.

"Maybe we should do a flat-warming at some point," Nancy states, feasting on what looks like a bowl of almonds, but Joan's not about to judge. Nancy is all black curls and long limbs, with her pyjamas checkered and breathable. She's one for comfortable clothes – fashion is just an accessory in itself, in her not-so-matter-of-fact opinion. Joan's inclined to agree, despite how she loves dressing up. She also has a wicked sense of humour, and it shows on many occasions, mostly inconvenient.

"A what now?" Kate looks at her, incredulity and also perhaps a little annoyance passing on her face. She's small and curvy, with a big heart, a big laugh and every type of book piled on her room's floor in staggering, wobbly piles. She keeps saying she's going to put up shelves, but the other two already know it's one of those distant dreams that just serve as background info when she looks at her bedroom. It's never going to happen.

"A flat warming," Nancy enunciates, passing out a handful of almonds.

"Haven't we warmed it up enough for your liking?" Kate gripes, her intolerance for any kind of heat always made clear by the ungodly amount of times she keeps leaving windows open. There's only so much that 'fresh air' can be let in before it can just be deemed as 'cold'.

"Not like that; have people over – family, friends,"

"You mean, men?"

Nancy shoves her, Joan bursting into laughter as Kate laughs along at Nancy's face.

"As if! Can't stand them half the time. No – to make it a proper welcome to the place,"

They all glance around at their new paint job. Yellow in most places, a deep, wine red in the stairwell, and all their furniture – from three different households – all assembled in a mish-mash of personality and taste and state. Barely anything is new – just the paint.

It makes it feel old and loved despite being new to their eyes.

"It does look good, though – doesn't it?" Joan's question makes them all mellow, a smile blooming on each face. Kate's freckles dance in the evening light; Nancy's skin glows and turns a dark bronze; Joan thinks perhaps her hair looks like it needs a good comb, but nevertheless. They're all natural here – and it feels nice to know they've made something of the place all by themselves.

"Yeah," Nancy admits, and they fall into a silence.

Perhaps this flat-sharing thing isn't going to be so scary after all.

Just different.

But since when was there anything wrong with that?

Joan might love her father, but he's also had a notorious reputation for being a right pain, especially when she least wants to see him.

Despite the car park incident being months ago, it still rings in her head that he likes to try and fix every problem, even when it's not his, not in any sense.

She's never suffered fools – except Morse, and even that's debateable. But her father is a fool in the worse kind of way, and he's made Morse the same: the kind of fool who doesn't even realize he's being one.

The walk home feels heavy, with the April rain showers making the ground underfoot slippery and uneven, the cobbles in the pavement glistening with the street lights, and the cars strolling along on the road set the scene for a discussion Joan has dreaded, perhaps even more than her one with Morse.

Her Dad is a lone figure in the night light, standing with his hat on and coat draped over his broad shoulders, stout and proud and too much like herself for her to stomach. Any conversation between them always felt familiar and solid, because they were so similar and in sync that it all felt normal. Now, she doesn't know – her stubbornness has grown with her, but he's not been able to outgrow his tunnel vision when it comes to her; in his eyes, and in the eyes of everyone else, apparently, she's sweet little Joan, not capable Joan, or independent Joan, or even just Joan. She's everyone's little girl, and it's hateful. She hates it.

She sighs as he comes into focus, her heels on the pavement the only sound as he turns to look at her – perhaps this will blow over quicker than she thought. Just more bombastically.

 _There was always so much to look forward to with this family._

"Your mum said you were back,"

His voice is tense, but loving. Maybe a little restrained. His expression certainly seems to be the latter.

"Did she?" Joan snaps, and instantly regrets it. Now is not the time for a petty argument.

"Alright, are you?" Her Dad continues, shouldering the comment with barely a blink of his eye. He's as she always sees him – stoical, and most definitely immovable, in both virtues and opinions.

"I'm fine," she says to him, terse and a little put out, because there's hot chocolate inside and it's a world away from all her responsibilities – and all the conversations – and it's maybe an avoidance tactic, but she doesn't care. She can't face the past with other people – she's done that on her own terms, and that's all she wants so far.

"You didn't need to come out, you know."

Her father doesn't reply. Joan sighs again, staring at the toes of her boots. They're flecked with water from the pavement, and the glow of the orange streetlamp illuminates the small droplets, like pinpricks of gold in the leather. It's beautiful, and also a distraction.

"New flat," he points his head in the direction, doing a once over of the door.

"That's right," She glares at him. "Just me and two girlfriends. No _men_ , if that's what you're worried about," She spits the word back at him, because it's an indication that that is his main concern, and she knows it, and won't allow him to have the upper hand here. She's had enough of that.

Fred rolls his eyes to heaven, ready to sigh and apologize like a certain Detective Sergeant, and it glaringly reminds her how much he's made Morse into himself. She wonders whether it's an accident, intentional, or an accident that's become a habit.

"I just wanted to see how you were,"

"Checking up on me?" The bite in her words is evident now, and she has no plans to disguise it.

"No -"

"I can let you have my flatmates' names and dates of birth, so you can run them past records, if that'll keep you happy,"

"I just want things to be right,"

"Right?" Joan hisses, and she realizes that what she has with her father is toast. Gone. Burnt. Up in smoke. Because there it is, right in front of her – same old, same old. The same thing over and over again. No allowance for something new, something different.

This idea keeps haunting her, and it's driving her nuts.

"How they were. We always got on," his tone is fond and so are his eyes, but she can't stomach it right now.

"You can't fix it! I've seen what happens when you try to fix things!" It's a slap to the face, because his expression changes; from consoling to defensive. Here's Fred Thursday again, from father to copper quicker than she can say 'smart'.

"There are bad things in the world, Joanie. Bad things. Bad _people_. Wickedness! I've only ever tried to keep you safe from that."

"Nobody asked you to! I certainly didn't – and neither did Sam!"

"You, your mum, Sam – if I've come up short -"

"It's 1968!" She snaps, glaring up at him with her temper roiling in her abdomen, heartbeat quick and frantic as she feels that same temper that resides in her Dad rise to the challenge.

"I'm not your little girl anymore. Not anyone's little anything. Stop treating me like a child – people have to make their own mistakes!"

The silence breeds like flies, churning in her stomach as she watches the night for a moment – a stray cat streaking across the road, the dappled spotlights under the street lamps – and her Dad, standing like a King defeated, but by his own sword.

"Say hello to mum for me,"

It's a dismissal.

And she walks past him, unlocking the door and closing it, she feels like she will regret leaving the conversation in such an awkward twist, as misshapen and hurtful as it is. It's a reminder, she feels, of how far the two of them have come. Her father can't accept that she's grown up – and maybe, in a terrible way, that means she can't accept his opinion anymore. Certainly not as gospel, like she used to.

"Joan?" Nancy's voice drifts down to her when she finally makes it through the door to their flat, situated in the topmost part of the building. She's nursing a mug of steaming coffee and looks more contented with it cupped in her hands than perhaps Joan has ever seen her before.

"Yeah, it's me," She lies her back flat against the inside of the door, not even removing her coat.

"What took you so long?" Nancy's voice sounds vaguely worried, and a rush of affection for her newest flatmate fills Joan to the core.

"My Dad stopped by," she replies, lifting herself from the door and depositing her coat on the table, stripping off her boots with a satisfied groan. Her feet have been killing her, no less because she's been on them all day.

"Did he say something to you? Oh, wait – is this the Dad that we aren't supposed to talk about?" Nancy raises an eyebrow, taking a sip. She snaps back instantly, cursing at the drink – it's still too hot.

"Do I have another father?"

"Don't pretend it wasn't a possibility,"

Joan shrugs. Touché.

"Doesn't matter. He's gone now,"

"You make it sound like a relief,"

Joan looks at her, studying her face. Nancy was a single parent child, so nuclear families are not her forte. But it shouldn't matter – her family situation far outweighs Joan's in terms of normality.

"Maybe because it is," Joan realizes her tone is far sharper than she wishes, and she sighs, rubbing her eyes. One of Nancy's hands is up in surrender, eyes widened as she heads for the sitting room – or rather, the adjacent bit of wall with a sofa against it.

"Whatever. I'll see you in the morning,"

"It's the morning within an hour,"

Nancy's head pops back around the wall.

"Please don't be _that_ person," her accompanying grin assuages Joan's bad feeling, as she puts the kettle on.

Maybe if the men in her life let her breathe for a change, she might have an idea what to do; how to fix things. For now, she's good as she is, but things still lie amiss outside the walls she's currently standing in, and it makes for a solid lump in her throat.

 _In the morning_ , she tells herself. She'll sort it out.

Eventually.

* * *

This was actually going to be longer, but we were hitting 7K words and I needed to stop *laughs*

This entire fic is turning out way longer than I ever envisioned, but it couldn't happen with all my lovely readers! You guys make my day! Thank you so much for all the support - it means a lot.


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